Executors of Logistics: The Misfits
by Osetto
Summary: Following the Great Galactic War, the Sith Empire stands tall in its victory. But in the new era of peace, the Empire threatens to crumble under its own weight. It falls to the Executors of Logistics, a new organization composed of Sith and Imperial bureaucrats alike, to ensure the Empire manages to survive without a war to sustain it. (A sequel to The Academy: Acolyte Ascension)
1. Chapter 1

_Foreword: This is an original story featuring original characters set in the universe of Bioware's 'Star Wars: The Old Republic'. Events depicted take place a decade prior to events in-game. Rated 'T' for depictions of violence and violent themes, as well as minor romantic scenes. (This is a followup to 'The Academy: Acolyte Ascension', but follows a new group of characters. Reading the first story is not necessary to enjoy this one, but references are made to past characters and events). Feedback is welcomed and appreciated._

* * *

**Chapter One**

_0 ATC. Dromund Kaas._

The Sith Empire was adapting to the new galactic climate. One of peace. The Great War had ended and, in their minds, they had won. All their years of planning, all their years of waiting to reveal themselves, and in a few short decades, the Empire brought the Republic to its knees. Coruscant burned, and would have been reduced to nothing had their conditions not been met. The Republic's capital was in ruins and the Jedi Order had no place to call home. There were celebrations to be had, but also preparations to be made.

The Empire's borders and holdings had rapidly expanded as a result of the Treaty of Coruscant, the once-tucked away and hidden nation now controlling roughly half the galaxy. But even in victory, their forces had waned, and were stretched perilously thin. It was the fear they had stricken into the hearts and minds of the Republic and the Jedi that protected them. But that fear would not last, especially without a war to propagate it. Thus, it fell to the Empire and its leaders to rebuild, to strengthen, to cement the ideal of superiority in their every facet.

But whilst the Dark Councilors and Ministers planned for the future in the halls of the capital world's Citadel, the common man saw fit to indulge in a bit of revelry. Within a cantina deep in the heart of Kaas City, those who had fought, those who had shed blood, sweat, and tears in their crusade against the Republic finally found a moment of reprieve. Far were the treacherous jungles that surrounded the walled metropolis. Absent were the perpetually dark and storming skies, replaced by gray ceilings and red neon. Distant were the memories and wounds of battle. They were victors, each and every one of them. Lowly grunts who had marched on their enemies in the name of their Lords now celebrated with a hearty drink with their comrades. The decorum and cold efficiency associated with the Imperial Army had been promptly shed. These were men and women whose sacrifices had finally been validated by means other than duty and obligation. They won the war. If that wasn't a good enough excuse to get drunk, there would never be one.

Amidst the loud banter and clacking glasses, the soldiers gathered and boasted to one another, dominating the room and setting the atmosphere. Despite the rigid and gray architecture of the cantina fitting in with the rest of the capital city, the inhabitants and their spirits instilled a sense of extravagance amidst the usual Imperial conformity and rigidity. The calls and cheers shared amongst the citizenry were enough to challenge the perpetual storms that filled the dark planet's skies.

But amidst the revelry was a lone figure, a Human, cut off from the celebration as he sat on a stool at the bar. The majority of the cantina's occupants wore loosened uniforms and fatigues, but the lone man looked more like a spacer than a soldier. Thick trousers and a jacket covered his body, both pieces of black attire lined with pockets and pouches. Despite his rather civilian garb, however, the man appeared to have gone through more than any of the gathered soldiers.

He possessed a rough countenance, not through age but conflict. Scars graced practically every inch of the man's tanned skin, ranging from small cuts to gashes that stretched across his entire face. His hair was unkempt, dark, and short. A thin layer of stubble covered the lower half of his face. As he sat upon his stool, he leaned forward with a blank, deadened stare, gloved hand firmly gripped around his drink.

Slowly raising his glass, the man was about to bring it to his lips when one of the celebrating soldiers bumped against his back. There was enough force behind the blow to just knock the glass free of the loner's mouth, sending a few droplets splashing upon his chest. The standing man staggered for a moment before righting his stance, placing a steadying hand upon the loner's broad shoulder.

"Whoa, sorry about that, buddy," he said with a slight slur in his voice.

The loner offered the gentle wave of his free hand, signaling no harm done, maintaining his perpetual forward stare.

"Hey buddy, what's the matter?" the man asked with drunken concern. "Why you moping over here by yourself? It's a time for celebration. We freakin' won, man! We beat those Republic bastards!"

With each word, the soldier's hand tightened on the loner's shoulder, slightly shaking him. But the loner remained stilled, unmoving, unshakable. With a calm hand, he gripped the drunkard's and politely removed it from his shoulder. The loner was now free to enjoy his drink. But not for long.

"Me and my squad, we were on Coruscant," said the soldier, taking a seat on the empty stool next to the loner. "Some of the first with our boots on the ground. And man did they put up a fight. We woulda been dead if not for Hesker. You heard of 'im? Guy took charge. Rallied us to victory. Saved our asses. Now we all got commendations. Hah!"

"Congratulations," the loner muttered, utterly stoic.

"What about you, where'd you serve?" the soldier asked.

The loner took a slow sip of his drink. "I'm not military."

"Well that explains it!" the soldier bellowed. The drunkard gave the loner a hearty slap on the back. "Don't worry, not everyone's got the stones for military duty. I'm sure you served the Empire in your own way. What's your field? Production? Transit? You look like a pilot."

"You make it a point to bother people trying to have a drink?" the loner bluntly asked.

"Whoa, I'm just trying to strike up conversation, buddy," the soldier shot back, noticeably insulted. "Unlike you, I was out there fightin' for the Empire. The least you could do is show me a little respect."

"Respect ought to be earned," the loner muttered. "Somehow I doubt we'd suffer without your gracious contribution."

The drunkard's face churned before finally settling on a harsh scowl. The loner's gaze permanently set forward, he didn't notice the man reach behind the counter, retrieving a glass bottle. Hand firmly gripped around the bottle's neck, the soldier brought it down upon the loner's head with a mighty swing, shattering the glass into countless tiny shards.

The loner didn't even flinch as the alcohol contained within washed over him. The instigator however, released a harsh yelp as he clutched at his bloodied hand, glass shards embedded in his palm. Though the loner showed no emotional response, he was not unaffected, bits of broken glass buried in his scalp, streams of blood flowing down the back of his head.

Preoccupied with his own injury, the drunkard didn't notice the gloved fist heading straight for his face. With a firm left hook, the loner sent the man tumbling to the cantina floor. By now, all eyes were drawn toward the altercation. The floored soldier's comrades had already removed themselves from their seats on the other side of the room, quickly making their way toward the loner with inebriated pride in their eyes.

Taking a single step away from the counter, the loner patiently waited for the soldiers to bridge the gap. One of the uniformed men released a wide swing of his fist, aptly blocked by the loner's raised forearm. Replying with a single strike, now two men found themselves squirming on the floor. The rest of the group tried to swarm the indomitable man, lashing out with a myriad of sloppy punches. Their fists bounced ineffectually off the loner's tough hide, not eliciting a single ounce of pain in the recipient.

Slowly but surely, he dealt with the attackers, whittling them down one by one, as the rest of the cantina watched from a distance, not impeding the brawling space. No effort made against the scarred man proved effective, and the attackers slowly realized they were trapped in a losing battle. Some tried to scurry away, others thought to bring the implacable man down however they could.

Gripping one of the attackers by the collar, the loner threw the man to the ground before delivering a quick blow to the head, knocking him out cold. Straightening out his stance, he turned just in time to see another bottle flying toward his head. A moment before impact, the bottle simply stopped, as if suspended in time, floating loftily in front of the scarred man's face. Near the counter, the thrower stared at his target with wide eyes, frozen with fright.

"Damn…" he muttered, before finding the bottle thrown right back. Not with an arm, but with the Force. The glass bottle remained intact as it struck its original thrower in the head. A loud thud rang out at the first impact, and another when the attacker collapsed onto the floor.

The final aggressor dealt with, the scarred man began patting himself down, wiping off whatever traces of alcohol he could. Panning his gaze across the distant witnesses, the loner gently prodded the back of his head. Seeing blood on his fingertips, the man let out a low sigh.

"Graves!" a voice called out from the cantina entrance. The loner turned toward the source, spotting an impeccably dressed officer standing in the doorway. "You've been summoned."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" the loner muttered.

* * *

Deep within the black halls of the Citadel, home of the Empire's various governmental bodies and organizations, the scarred man sat in a compact, suffocating chamber. Occupied by a single desk, a single chair, and a single light hanging overhead, the loner sat in the dim glow, still stained with blood and alcohol. His back to the room's entrance, he didn't budge when he heard the door move into its recess. What followed was the heavy sound of boots against the floor, carried with an uneven gait.

"Mr. Graves," a low, raspy voice spoke up.

His gaze still forward, the scarred man watched as a tall figure walked into view. Clad in black robes, the alien was cloaked in the dim lighting of the room, but his features were easily distinguishable. He had rough, leathery orange skin, and two large horns sprouting from his cranium. Curving downward, one came to an end with its tip beneath his chin, the other stopped short with a flat stump, its tip having been severed.

"Welcome to Logistics."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"And who are you?" Graves asked, voice smooth and deep.

"Syrosk," the alien bluntly answered, a contrasting grit dominating his voice. "But you'll come to know me as Executor Zero."

The scarred man narrowed his gaze as he looked up and down the robed figure. The horned alien possessed a strong physique, one masked by his numerous layers of loose robes, as well as his minor slouch. Syrosk kept his hands neatly folded behind his back whilst his shoulders were held forward at a slight dip. His face was rough, seeing its fair share of battle, but it did not approach the Human's overt scarring. His skin was leathery and wrinkled, though whether it was due to age or heritage, Graves did not know.

The alien exuded a subdued presence, but there was no question that the man was a Sith.

"Okay…" the Human muttered between pauses. "I take it you're the one who summoned me."

"If you want to get technical about it, the esteemed Darth Vowrawn of the Dark Council summoned you," Syrosk said with his usual rasp, albeit a slightly more pedantic one. The alien put the bare minimum effort into emoting, offering little more than a cold and heavy stare.

Graves maintained his silence as he looked up and down the man across from him, a peculiarity in almost all aspects. An alien within a xenophobic Order, working for one of the twelve most powerful and influential Sith beneath the Emperor.

"What would a Dark Councilor want with me?" Graves asked.

"I'm honestly not sure," Syrosk answered, slightly dipping his head. "I've read your file. Wasn't that impressed. But Darth Vowrawn thinks you'd be a prime candidate for his new organization. The Executors of Logistics."

Graves paused, looking up and down the alien, almost studying him. "Which, given your title, I take it you're a big part of."

"Astute."

"And what exactly is the purpose of this… organization?"

Syrosk took a step closer, bending ever so slightly to move his face closer to that of the seated man. "To keep the Empire alive."

"I didn't know the Empire was dying," Graves admitted.

The horned alien straightened out his posture, or rather, returned to the slightly less hunched stance he possessed prior. "No. No one ever does. Our purpose is to keep the infrastructure of the Empire intact. A task made far more difficult now that the war is over. Restructuring for peace. Recuperating losses. Overseeing new territories. Logistics now requires a workforce. One supported by the might of the Sith."

"You want Sith doing Logistics work? Like monitoring traffic? Watching factory output?" Graves asked, a hint of befuddlement shining through his stoicism.

"Production and Logistics has always lacked a direct influence when it came to Sith enforcers. The Executors will remedy that," Syrosk explained. "Whilst others monitor traffic, they will go out and destroy anything impeding it. Whilst others watch factory output, they will ensure anyone who lays a hand on that output loses that hand."

"Hmm."

"Ours is the Sphere of Influence upon which all others are built," Syrosk added. "Without us, the Empire ceases to function. And with the Executors, we can finally take an active role. As Sith who desire something more than personal gain."

"And how many people you got in this… organization of yours?" Graves asked.

"Few," said Syrosk. "The foundations have only just been put in place. You'd be amongst the first to join… and possess special privileges accordingly."

"Special how?"

"Executors operate in groups, overseen by handlers," Syrosk explained. "Handlers are typically high-level Ministry bureaucrats. For you and your group, however, I would act as your handler."

"No disrespect, but it's not really jumping out at me why one of those would be preferable to the other," Graves offered with a shrug. "But that's beside the point, because I don't really work in groups."

"It would only be three of you," said Syrosk. "One of whom is already here, and the third is currently on her way. We could go meet them if you wish."

Graves let out a low sigh and shifted in his seat, eyes drawn to the floor.

"What have you got to lose?" Syrosk rasped. "You leave here, you go back to drowning your sorrows, getting into bar fights whilst you slowly waste away. What I'm offering is not perfect. But it is something to put your talents to use. Something to give you purpose. Does that sound like something you'd want?"

The scarred man maintained his focus on the floor, glaring at the point between his feet. He unconsciously began tapping his boot, the light thuds echoing throughout the compact chamber.

"You said… the others are here?" Graves muttered, still looking downward.

"One is. The other will be soon."

The scarred man finally lifted his gaze. "Alright. I want to see them."

"Then follow me," Syrosk directed, making his way toward the door without a moment's hesitation. The Human sluggishly lifted himself from his seat and followed. Together, the odd pair walked through the interior halls of the Citadel, the oppressive atmosphere surrounding them at every corner. The government building was equal parts constricting and open, various passageways giving way to either grand chambers or suffocating offices. Every surface was composed of dark and gray metals, polished and angular. Sharp, yet orderly, and adorned with countless flags and banners basking in the glow of red lights. A perfect picture of Imperial aesthetics.

As they walked side by side, Syrosk set the pace, one that lacked all sense of urgency, mostly due to the alien's lumbering, uneven gait. As they traversed the narrower halls of the Citadel, the Human couldn't help but study the horned figure.

"I can tell you've a prosthetic leg," Graves casually stated.

Syrosk momentarily turned toward the Human before resuming his forward gaze. "It was severed on Coruscant."

"Took part in the Sacking?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Combatant?" Graves asked.

Syrosk nodded. "I fought, yes."

"Who did it?"

"A Sith," Syrosk explained, maintaining his usual calm rasp.

There was a pause in the conversation, but not in the movement as the pair continued their trek through the Citadel. "I see," Graves finally said. "You kill him?"

"One of my apprentices did," Syrosk replied.

Graves turned toward the elder Sith. "You have apprentices?"

"Had. Not anymore."

"I see. How many did you have?"

"Eight," said Syrosk.

"They all die?" asked Graves, not an ounce of emotion attached to his question.

"No. We simply parted ways after the war. Their training was complete."

"Huh," Graves muttered as he returned his focus toward the path ahead. "Didn't know that was possible for a Sith."

"They weren't normal Sith," Syrosk declared.

"Neither are you, as evidenced by that pair of horns. Or is that a Pureblood trait I'm unaware of?"

"No, I'm an alien. And have been treated as such for the past many decades of my life."

"But working with a Dark Councilor… seems you're doing pretty good for yourself now."

"Seems so."

The pair came to stop outside a discretely marked door. They hadn't gone far, and Graves could tell they were still in the same sector of the Citadel despite little time spent within the corridors of the grand capital building himself. The various gray slabs that made up the majority of Imperial architecture had the tendency to blend together, but those who had spent enough of their lives around them had a way of noticing their various subtleties.

"Your prospective teammate trained on Korriban much like yourself," Syrosk stated as he hovered his hand over the controls to the room's entrance. Graves kept his attention focused on the Executor as the door lifted into its recess. "The man's name is-"

"You!" a shrill voice rang out from the room's interior.

Before he could even turn his head, Graves found himself knocked back, the other man launching himself from the room, driving his shoulder into the loner's gut and tackling him into the opposite wall. Graves' back impacted against the solid wall of the corridor with a loud thud, but that was all that would be heard from him, even as the attacker kept slamming his fists into the scarred man's ribcage.

Syrosk watched the rowdy scene unfold from his previous spot, unmoving, offering only a low sigh at the exchange. The aggressor had Graves pinned to the wall for a few seconds as he delivered blow after blow to his midsection, when finally the Executor decided to step in. With a firm hand, the alien grasped the back collar of the attacker's black robes and tore him free, sending him stumbling back into the room he had previously occupied. Graves took a moment to right his stance, crinkling his neck as he patted himself off, no worse for wear.

The Human who had thrown himself at the loner planted his feet, unmoving, a harsh scowl upon his heavily obscured face. The man wore a full set of pitch-black robes, fitted for martial combat so that they contoured to the wearer's lean frame. But wherever flesh might be exposed, none was. Instead, all one could see was the white wrapping that covered the man's skin across his entire head and torso. The cloth strips tightly hugged his flesh, but allowed for free articulation and movement. Atop his head, the errant tuft of black hair would peak through the wrappings around his scalp. Brief glimpses of skin could be seen around the man's eyes and mouth, but it was damaged, having been burned long ago.

The two men stared one another down as the alien calmly passed his gaze between the marred pair.

"I take it you two possess a history," Syrosk rasped, purposely stating the obvious.

"This bastard burned my face off!" the attacker harshly declared.

"Some might consider it an improvement," Graves calmly stated, maintaining his utterly stoic demeanor.

The burned man lunged forward once more, this time stopped by Syrosk placing a hand out, lightly pressing against the man's wrapped chest. He could have continued had he desired, but there was an ethereal feeling emanating from the alien's palm. Whatever force the Executor was exerting, it was subtle, but it spoke of an inner power that its wielder could not even be bothered to display. One capable of doing far more than bringing a man to a simple stop. Still wearing his harsh scowl, the aggressor slowly backed down, but remained poised to attack.

"How's things, Asher?" Graves casually asked. The burned man gritted his teeth, a subtle growl slipping past his charred lips. Ignoring the loner's inquiry, Asher turned his attention toward the alien.

"If you think I'm working with this guy, you can forget it!" Asher declared, his voice significantly higher than the other Sith's.

"I would advise you to withhold your decision until you been given all the details," Syrosk stated. "But if you wish to walk away, you're free to do so. Just know that you'll be on your own again. Without the backing and protection of a Dark Councilor's influence."

The burned man's eyes sharpened as he stewed in silence. From beneath his bandaged facade, he passed his gaze between the alien and the loner. They both offered only cold, blank expressions in response. Asher released a soft grunt as he impatiently wrung his hands, rubbing his wrapped knuckles with some mixture of anxiety and hidden pain.

"Fine. I'll hear you out," Asher muttered.

"Then, if the both of you would kindly step inside," Syrosk directed alongside the gentle wave of his hand. As Asher blocked the doorway, he remained motionless, continuing to stare down Graves, but was eventually forced to concede. Breaking his lock on the loner, the burned man turned inward, heading toward where he had previously waited, Graves following shortly behind. The two prospects now inside, the Executor put a hand to his ear, engaging a compact earpiece. "You can skip the interim. Bring her directly to the conference room."

A word of acknowledgment discretely rang out in the alien's ear. Lowering his hand, the Executor entered the room, the door shutting behind him. Inside, while far from grand, the chamber was sizably larger than the room Graves had previously been in. And in its center rest a sizably larger table. The long table stretched horizontally in front of the entering Sith, three chairs waiting on the opposite end. The fixture could have easily accommodated a dozen seats on either side, but still it featured only those three solitary chairs.

Stepping around the table, Asher and Graves took their seats on the outer chairs, leaving the one between them vacant. Syrosk stood at attention opposite them, placing himself between the table and the chamber's entrance, patiently waiting with his hands folded behind his back. "There was nothing in your files that indicated a common history, aside from both of you receiving your training at the Korriban Academy."

"Had the same Overseer for a while," said Graves. "We were candidates for apprenticeship under Lord Traer."

"I eventually got it," Asher boasted.

"Intriguing," Syrosk muttered as he rubbed his chin. "Overseers aren't known for letting more than one acolyte survive their trials."

"I'm hard to kill," said Graves, utterly nonchalant. "Asher left Korriban with his new master. I was put in another group under another Overseer. Got myself apprenticed to Lord Drath a few months later."

The burned man began to crack up, releasing a steady chortle as he leaned back in his chair. "No way! You got picked up by Drath?"

"There something wrong with that?" asked Graves.

"Other than the fact that he was notorious for going through apprentices, of which he's had at least a dozen… no nothing at all," Asher sarcastically replied.

"Well, I outlived him, didn't I?"

"You totally did. You're the best Sith ever," said Asher, completely deadpan.

"Well, you both must have done something right to earn Darth Vowrawn's attention," Syrosk interrupted.

Asher shrugged. "Don't know why. My master wasn't in his Sphere or anything. And if they had dealings, I sure as hell didn't know about them."

"He believes you both talented and well-suited for the work we have planned," said Syrosk.

"I noticed you weren't exactly forthcoming with what that work entailed in our first meeting," Asher admitted.

Syrosk narrowed his gaze toward the chatty Sith. "I was planning to wait until your third arrived before going into detail."

Behind the Executor, the room's entrance shot open, and the inhabitants quickly turned their attention toward the rescinded door. Beyond stood an intimidating man, a Pureblood, bald of head, Sith rune etched onto his face with black ink. One of the Empire's chosen people, the red-skinned humanoid possessed a powerful and domineering image, one helped by the thick armorweave that encased his sturdy frame below the neck. Looking into the room, he offered only a cold, deadened stare.

"Did you bring her?" Syrosk asked. The Pureblood gave a brief nod before stepping to the side.

A woman walked into frame, and immediately humbled her escort. A Human of superb physical prowess, she stood tall, taller than any of the other Sith. At over two meters, she surpassed even the Executor's impressive height without the aid of armor or footwear. Her hair was long and dark, restrained in a singular braid that reached her lower back. Her body was toned and muscular, chiseled into a strong and dexterous form unburdened by an ounce of excess fat. A fact that was made all the more apparent by her attire. Her tanned arms went exposed and her core was covered by a black, form-fitting shirt. The sleeveless compression garb was tucked into a pair of cargo pants, of which neither it nor its belt seemed to possess an attached lightsaber.

"Fay. Glad you could join us," Syrosk rasped. Extending his arm, he directed toward the two currently seated Sith. "Meet Asher and Graves."

Peering into the conference room, the tall woman saw the two men sitting on the opposite side of the chamber. The two sides stared at one another in silence, neither eliciting the same heated response as before. This time, the parties introduced were unaffiliated strangers.

As the third prospect studied her fellows, they remained stilled and silent until finally, the burned man slowly raised a white-clad hand and offered a gentle wave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Fay took her first steps into the room, each one echoing through the deathly quiet chamber. Just outside, the Pureblood walked back into view, casting his dulled gaze toward his superior. Syrosk offered a brief, silent nod, relieving the escort of his duties. He replied with a nod of his own, stepping away and disappearing into the halls of the Citadel. The door closed once more, sealing in the four Sith from the outside world.

"Take a seat, if you would," said Syrosk toward the tall woman. She kept silent, making her way around the table, forced to take the middle seat.

As she approached, the others caught a quick but clear glimpse of her face amidst the chamber's dim lighting. She looked to be in her late twenties, same as the other prospects. But the first thing the other Sith noticed was the pristineness of her visage. She wore not a single scar nor blemish upon her face. In fact, she possessed not a single visible mark on her entire body. A stark contrast to the three battered and scarred men before her. But her expression had more in common as she wore a stern facade, slowly panning the room with her sharpened eyes. The peculiarity of the other Sith was readily apparent, especially with the one covered in a layer of blood and alcohol, but it did little to shake her dominating stoicism.

With Fay taking her spot between Asher and Graves, the three Sith had finally been gathered. The Executor passed his discerning gaze between the trio, each completely different. Completely unique. He sensed power within each of them. About as much as one could expect of a set of apprentices with their age and background. Nothing particularly outstanding. If they possessed hidden potential, they were doing their best to keep it hidden. But it wouldn't be the first time a set of motley Sith managed to surprise him.

"Asher. Fay. Graves," Syrosk began. "The Firestarter. The Kineticist. The-"

"What's a Kineticist?" Graves interrupted.

"A type of Force specialist," Asher answered. "You know, kinetics? Motions. Pushes. Pulls."

Graves calmly wafted his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I get it…"

"You asked," Asher snarked.

"You know, I'm sitting right here," Fay spoke up, quiet but not timidly so. Her voice was that of restraint, and yet each word was firm in its delivery.

Asher gave an exaggerated shrug. "Oh, really? I didn't see you there."

The woman offered the stern arch of her brow as she sat in her chair, arms crossed, unwilling to expend the necessary energy for anything close to a response.

Meanwhile, Syrosk released a low, droning sigh as he began to rub his brow. "I do not like being interrupted."

"And I don't like being dragged into the Citadel by people who say their working for people who say their working for a Dark Councilor with nothing to show for it," Asher shot back. As Syrosk continued to rub his brow, he slowly raised his other hand, showing his palm to the burned man as if express a silent 'pause'. "And if you expect me to-"

Asher wasn't even looking at the Executor when he flicked his wrist downward, telekinetically grabbing the burned man's head and slamming it into the cold, hard table. The Sith's bandaged cranium bounced off the solid surface with a thud, eliciting a soft, drawn-out groan from the reeling prospect.

"I bet that hurt," Graves said, completely deadpan.

"What would you know?" Asher barked, clutching the side of his head.

"May I continue?" Syrosk asked, an expediency accompanying his usual grit. The burned man offered a silent wave of his free hand, urging him to proceed. "My name is Algo Syrosk. My boss is Darth Vowrawn of the Dark Council. Not my 'master'. My boss. We are extending an invitation to you three to join a new organization, the Executors of Logistics. You will serve as a specialized task force capable of handling problems within the Sphere that others cannot. Providing security and maintaining order amongst the Empire will be your primary objectives. I will be your handler, serving as your mentor and guide whilst dispatching you on missions. I, too, will be your boss, not your 'master'. You, in turn will be employees, not acolytes or apprentices. Your first and only title will be Executor. You'll remain Sith, but will exist outside the standard hierarchy of Lords and Darths. No more backstabbing. No more power bases. No more spoils of war. You will belong to the Executors. You will follow their rules. In return, you will receive the backing and protection of the institution and its founder. That is in addition to a steady paycheck and benefits. You'll never have to worry about housing or transportation again. But most importantly, this is your chance to help yourselves as well as the Empire."

"Any specifics on the types of missions we'll be carrying out?" asked Graves.

"If something needs fixing, you'll fix it. If something needs breaking, you'll break it," Syrosk explained. "You'll be handling assignments that the other Spheres cannot handle themselves or devote resources to. Pushing back incursions into Sith territory. Destroying threats to Imperial trade, whether they be Republic or independent. If a rising Sith proves to be a threat to the stability of the Empire, it will fall to you to end them."

Asher finally ceased rubbing the side of his head. "How's the pay?"

"Unfinalized and negotiable," Syrosk replied. "It will be comparable to highly skilled, high-risk security work."

"Why us?" Fay bluntly asked, arms refusing to budge from their crossed position.

"Having read your files, you each possess a number of common traits with those we hope to recruit," said Syrosk. "You've displayed a certain level of competence and skill. You've lost your masters and your standing after the war. You've stagnated, with few opportunities to improve your station by yourselves."

"So you just swoop in to give us a new life? Just like that?" Asher asked, unconvinced.

A simple nod from the Executor. "Pretty much."

"And that doesn't sound the least bit shady or exploitative to you?" Asher continued.

"Targeted recruitment to ensure the health and efficiency of the organization," said Syrosk. "You're right, we did seek out those with nowhere else to go. If you think that's us taking advantage of you, then go ahead. But I'm a Force-sensitive alien living in the Sith Empire. I do not make the offer of a new life lightly."

"Alright, but why us specifically?" Fay asked. "You said Darth Vowrawn wanted us three working with you. Why us? Why you?"

"Vowrawn is a very calculative man," Syrosk explained. "Your actions at your respective academies managed to earn his attention. He seems to believe you possess a certain potential. As for me, he believes I have the potential to see that potential realized."

"And why might he think that?" asked Graves.

"Because I recently trained eight apprentices," Syrosk replied. "They were aliens, slaves, and outcasts. Once considered filth just like me. I taught them, lost them, regained them, lost them again. But in the two years of training I provided, they displayed vast improvements, partly due to their inherent skill, partly due to the unique nature of their training. Vowrawn believes my expertise rests in handling Sith while in groups."

"Well, I don't really work in groups," Graves repeated.

"I know. And ironically, you're not alone in that fact," said Syrosk. "My apprentices worked in pairs, not all of them appreciative of the fact. But those that were? Those that embraced the notion rather than rejected it? They became some of the most capable Sith I know. If you choose to stay, I can promise that you will only become stronger."

"What's the point of becoming stronger if we're not actually Sith anymore?" Asher asked. "I mean, if we're 'outside the standard Sith hierarchy', why bother?"

"Your tenure as an Executor is as permanent as you desire," Syrosk replied. "If you want to leave and give up the protection and backing we provide to pursue your own goals, you will be free to do so."

The prospects were silent, stewing in their own thoughts.

"But I'll make this clear. You're not like the other candidates," Syrosk declared. "Vowrawn wants you three for this group. He doesn't seem keen on telling me why, but I will fulfill his wishes and guide you to the best of my abilities. You will be treated fairly and given every opportunity necessary to succeed. I'll give you a moment alone to talk it over amongst yourselves."

With that, the Executor turned and headed out the door without another moment of hesitation. The prospects were somewhat dumfounded as they watched the entrance open and close behind the alien.

Now they were alone. Three Sith, sitting at a conference table under a dim light. The burned man. The tall woman. The scarred loner.

"So. Any thoughts?" Graves began.

"I don't know," Asher muttered. "It doesn't sound like something that should exist. I mean, isn't being a Sith all about unrestricted freedom? Why populate a Logistics organization with them?"

"Because I can measure on my hands how many Sith that 'unrestricted freedom' has actually worked out for," Graves casually stated. "Meanwhile there are probably hundreds of low-level Sith serving someone they hate, looking for an out. This way, they stay within the Empire rather than trying to run away."

"So you think it's a good idea?" Asher asked.

"I think it's an understandable one," Graves clarified. "What about the guy's stories about his apprentices? That'd mean he was at least a Lord before becoming Executor. And they don't typically let people like him become Lords."

"I don't know, he seems pretty old," said Asher. "Maybe he was grandfathered in by some old rule before the war."

"What about his apprentices?" asked Graves. "He said they were aliens and slaves too."

"You know, I heard something about a group of students on Korriban who didn't belong there. Like, secret ones, in the lower halls," Asher declared. "In fact, I heard something about some alien straight up killing a guy on the Academy steps, and no one did a thing to stop or punish him. If that's him, he's the real deal."

"I don't recall anything like that," Graves admitted. "Was it during our time at the Academy?"

"No, afterwards. Like, right before the war ended," Asher explained.

"I thought you left Korriban for good after finding a master," said Graves. "Were you keeping tabs on the place or something?"

"No, just… sometimes you hear some things," Asher replied. "What about you, Fay? Hear anything about that?"

"No," Fay admitted. "Then again, I trained on Ziost, not Korriban."

"I see," Asher muttered, scratching his bandaged chin. "So… do they grow 'em all that big on Ziost?"

The tall woman turned to the burned man, offering only the silent, judging arch of her brow.

A smirk appeared on Asher's lips. "Ah, the strong and quiet type, eh?"

"No. Some people just don't like talking to you," Graves said in his usual stoic manner.

"And yet you conveniently continue to do so!" Asher barked, the playful warmth immediately leaving his visage.

"Now, now, no need to get fired up," Graves calmly offered.

The burned man gritted his teeth. "Don't you even-"

"If you haven't noticed, Fay, he's a bit of a hothead," Graves continued.

"I swear, by the Emperor… gah," Asher muttered before devolving into a series of low grunts.

"You're an emotive little thing, aren't you?" Fay bluntly asked.

"He's just angry because there's nothing he can do to hurt me," said Graves.

"And you're not one for humility," Fay added.

"No. He's actually right. I literally can't hurt him," Asher admitted. "He doesn't feel pain. As evidenced by his apparent lack of a desire to duck."

Turning her head, the tall woman saw the scarred man still wore the aftermath of conflict upon himself. Fresh cuts etched into the flesh atop his head. Streaks of crusted blood he had missed when wiping himself down stained his scalp. All accompanying litany of other partially healed scars from days long passed, barely concealed by the bedraggled hair surrounding them.

Fay slowly bounced her gaze between the two men. "So, I take it you two know each other then?"

"We were rivals on Korriban, both after the attention of same master," Graves explained. "He only wanted one apprentice, so…"

"We were constantly fighting one another," Asher continued. "Eventually, it was just us from the group the Overseer had gathered."

"And who won?" asked Fay.

Asher jut an enthusiastic, boastful thumb toward his chest. "I did. And all it took was taking off one of his arms."

"Our last duel ended with his upper body burnt to a crisp, though," Graves added.

"How'd that happen?" Fay asked.

"Asher couldn't beat me in a straightforward duel, so he had to utilize some tricks to get by," Graves explained.

"Vibrating particles at a molecular level isn't a 'trick'," Asher quickly replied. "It's as genuine an application of the Force as any other."

"Yeah, but other Sith don't carry a flask of combustible fuel on their belt," Graves said.

Asher offered a flippant shrug. "They would if they were smart."

"Says the man who had his face burned off when his own ploy backfired," Graves replied.

"A _minor_ setback," said Asher.

"You're still completely wrapped with bandages," Graves plainly stated.

Asher shrugged. "Kolto treatments took care of most of the damage. The scarring is mostly aesthetic."

"So you simply wanted to look like you just stumbled out of an ancient Sith tomb?" Graves asked.

"Wouldn't you? Better than looking like some random spacer," said Asher. "I evoke a certain image. A good percentage of being a Sith is cultivating a certain look. I mean, just ask 'Muscles' here."

"Excuse me?" Fay quickly replied.

"I'm guessing genetics blessed you with a large frame, but there's little reason to train your body to such a degree, especially if you consider yourself a Kineticist. I mean, at a certain point, additional muscle becomes superfluous when you've got the Force."

"You wanna see how superfluous these muscle are?" Fay asked, almost at a whisper. A harsh, stern whisper.

"Hey, if you're offering me a look…" Asher wisecracked as he reached into the folds of his robes, giving the other prospects the bare minimum of his attention. A moment later, the burned man's hand returned with a slender cylindrical object between his fingers, a paper shaft wrapped around an assortment of dried, packed herbs. Placing the cigarra in his mouth, the burned man snapped his fingers, producing a small arc of electricity between his fingertips and held it near the object's outer tip.

"It almost seems like you actively want people to hate you," said Graves.

"That would imply that I cared," Asher replied, the Force lightning between his fingers setting the cigarra tip aflame. The paper glowed a bright orange, burning further as the man drew in a deep breath. Exhaling, Asher released a plume of smoke into the compact room.

Carefully raising her hand, Fay placed her fingers level with the burned man's face. Holding her index finger and thumb together, she offered a quick, effortless flick. Beneath Asher's eye, the tip of his cigarra fell to the table below, the other half still resting between his lips. Split by some invisible force, the two parts had not been crushed or torn apart, but sliced as if by the sharpest and finest of blades. Looking down, Asher saw the still-lit half of the cigarra lift itself from the table before telekinetically crumbling and compressing into a tiny ball of crushed ash. Not a moment later, it fell, striking the table with a light bounce before settling.

"Nothing about me is superfluous," Fay emphatically declared.

"Point taken," Asher said with a growing smirk, removing the remains of the cigarra from his mouth. "So. A Firestarter. A Kineticist. And a Man Who Feels No Pain. Someone thinks we'd work well together. A Dark Councilor in fact. One who's apparently been keeping tabs on us since our time in the academies. He thinks we're special, but wants us basically doing grunt work for his new organization. We get a paycheck and a chance at retirement in exchange for promising not to try and betray and kill one another. That sound about right?"

"Sounds about right," Graves offered.

"So, who wants to ride this thing until it inevitably comes crashing down around us?" Asher asked.

"You're not one for great first impressions, are you?" Fay replied.

"Nope. But think about it. That just means it's all up from here," said Asher.

"Uphill, more like," Graves commented.

Fay offered the lightest of sighs. "Are you two going to be at each other's throats this whole endeavor?"

"I'm willing to put the past behind me if he is," Graves declared.

"Sure," said Asher, before leaning closer to his scarred fellow. "Just remember. I'm just as capable of taking off the other arm."

"Didn't stop me the first time," Graves stated with a wave of his left hand, its cybernetic nature concealed beneath the numerous layers of black garb.

The prospects were interrupted by the chamber's door rising into its recess. Slowly, Syrosk walked back into the room with his lumbering, uneven gait. Stopping just on the other side of the table, the alien passed his sharpened gaze over each individual one by one.

"Have you made a decision?" Syrosk calmly asked.

The room fell silent. None had an immediate response. The prospects looked around, studying one another, trying to glean some measure of their thoughts.

"Alright. I'm in," Fay eventually spoke up.

"Same here," Asher quickly stated.

All eyes fell to the loner, scarred and stained. Graves kept his gaze affixed to the table, staring in silence as the others did the same toward him. He release a heavy sigh and a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder.

"Fine, I guess," Graves muttered.

"Then let me be the first to officially welcome you to Logistics," Syrosk declared.

"You already welcomed us to Logistics," Asher stated. The alien narrowed his harsh gaze upon the burned man, whom raised his hands in half-hearted apology.

"Then let me congratulate you on your new positions… Executors."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter ****Four**

The three new Executors followed their boss as they all made their way through the dark halls of the Citadel. The aged alien set the pace with his hastily sluggish gait. Their destination was unknown, but the three followers offered little protest.

"I will be filling the role of both a mentor and coordinator," Syrosk explained as he walked. "When you aren't on a mission, I will be training you."

"So... we _are_ your apprentices," Asher spoke up.

Syrosk kept his unwavering gaze forward. "If you are so insistent on such a designation, then yes."

"What kind of training?" asked Fay. "We're rather beyond the standard fare of the Academies."

"Yes. You are," Syrosk rasped. "There's little more to be instilled in you that won't be achieved in the field. Your minds, however, will need to be conditioned for your work."

"I think we're ready for the horrors of Logistics field work," Asher joked.

"I'm concerned with security, not mental health," Syrosk curtly replied. "Your thoughts must remain your own. If you cannot resist interrogations and probes of your mind, you'll not only endanger yourselves and your teammates, but the Ministry and the Empire itself."

"Well, we got a guy who can't feel pain, so we'll just let him take our spots in any torture scenarios," Asher stated, jabbing his elbow into Graves' side.

"Pain is neither the only nor an effective means of extracting information... Murel," Syrosk rasped.

A cold shiver immediately shot up Asher's spine.

Graves turned toward his burned teammate. "Your real name's Murel?"

Asher folded his arms. "It's the name of an old war hero, shut up. Besides, he probably just read it off my file."

"Perhaps," said Syrosk. "But your file would not have told me that you decided on your moniker when an acolyte said your last name with a broken jaw your second week on Korriban."

Asher ducked his gaze as the walked. "It might have. I've never seen the file."

The horned alien released a low sigh. "Even so, I am not the only telepath in the galaxy. Few may be as effective as I, but they do exist. Amongst the Sith. Amongst the Jedi. You'll be dealing with both and we cannot have you divulging information, whether you even realize it or not."

"Good to know we're planning on keeping secrets from our fellow Sith this early in our venture," said Asher. This time, it was unclear whether the burned man was speaking sarcastically or not.

"Logistics operates on information," Syrosk declared. "Lose control of that information and the operation falls apart."

"Alright, anything else in store besides the mental lockdown?" Fay asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

"Darth Vowrawn seems to believe you each possess unrealized potential," Syrosk replied. "It's my duty to see it brought to light."

"Yes, yes, you've already said as much," Asher said, accompanying his words with the flimsy waft of his hand. "_We're_ special. _You're_ special. We get it. But what exactly are you going to do with that?"

"I don't know," Syrosk bluntly stated.

"You don't know?" Graves spoke up.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Fay added.

"Much like Logistics, I operate on information," Syrosk explained. "I cannot properly train you until I know more about you, until you know more about each other."

The burned Sith cocked his head to the side. "So, what, we're all just going to pal around for a while?"

"You will. I won't," Syrosk rasped. "I already have a mission lined up for you."

"Don't missions usually come... you know, after training?" asked Asher, scratching the back of his wrapped head.

"I need to know if you're worth training in the first place," Syrosk declared.

"The word of a Dark Councilor not enough for you?" Asher teased.

"No. It is not."

The motley group continued through the halls of the Citadel. As they headed deeper and deeper, the Executors could feel the weight of the other denizens' passing gazes. They were each out of place, despite belonging nowhere else. The Imperials and Sith of the capital saw only what rest upon the surface. The alien. The spacer. The mummy. The giant. None of them fit with the locals' notions of what a Sith was, but Sith they remained.

Enduring the errant stares and prolonged trek through the halls of conniving Sith and Imperial bureaucrats, Syrosk came to a stop in front of a door that spoke of a far grander chamber than the small waiting rooms the recruits were accustomed to.

"This is our base of operations," Syrosk explained. In response to his presence, the door automatically lifted, granting the group of Sith sight into the chamber beyond. The large door oversold its grandeur.

The room on the other side of the entrance was compact, especially compared with the headquarters of other organizations within the Citadel. No high ceilings. No foyers or redundant spaces. No room for statues or banners. Every wall was covered with consoles and databanks. In the center, a holoterminal displayed a galactic map, small blips firing off at regular intervals. Around it, a small group of uniformed Imperials bustled about, bumping each other's shoulders as they navigated the tight quarters. The men and women, all Human, all 'normals', had their eyes glues to the datapads in their hands, lifting their gazes only if more pertinent information flashed across the screens attached to the terminals around them.

"It's not exactly on par with the Intelligence headquarters, is it?" said Asher, with a healthy dose of snark.

"It serves our purpose... for now," Syrosk rasped. The alien stepped inside, as did the other three shortly after.

"My lord, you've returned," a soft voice called out from deeper within the base. A woman stepped from the controlled chaos that embroiled the chamber, rushing to greet the four Sith. She was a picture of Imperial decorum, clean cut and orderly while still possessing a relative youth. "Operations are proceeding on schedule. No word of complication from X1 or X2."

"Very good," Syrosk replied, a modicum of praise slipping past his usual rasp. "If there's nothing more to report, I'd like you to handle the induction of these three recruits."

"Of course, my lord," the woman said with a respectful bow of her head. Upon raising it, she looked upon the three Sith standing behind her boss. She remained silent for a moment, trying to formulate her own thoughts, before softly biting her lip. Carefully, she leaned in close to Syrosk. "I'm sorry, my lord, but what position are they filling?"

"They are Sith," said Syrosk. "They've been handpicked by Darth Vowrawn to be Executors."

Her eyes widened as she shot back up, stance rigid as the recruits cast their disinterested gazes upon her. "My apologies, lords. I did not realize..."

Syrosk offered a dismissing wave of his hand as the woman bowed her head once more. "It is of no trouble. Just have the applications ready."

"At once, my lord," the woman shot off before ducking back into the organized chaos that persisted deeper in the chamber.

"What happened to 'no longer being lords' and such?" Asher asked.

"Whatever our positions, we will always be regarded as Sith," Syrosk replied. "There's no changing that."

"I'm just surprised they all seem content to work under an alien," Graves admitted.

"I've proven myself, as have they," said Syrosk. "We all serve the Empire here."

"Of course we do," Asher half-heartedly replied. "But I assume we don't all serve the Empire _from_ here, right? I mean, not insulting your base or anything, but, uh, there doesn't seem to be very many amenities. It seems like we'd just be taking up space... one of us in particular."

The wrapped Sith winced at what felt like a fist driving itself into his arm. Turning his head, he saw Fay staring at him, eyes sharpened, but entirely motionless. Her arms crossed beneath her chest, she had either moved at a blinding speed, or not at all.

"No, we're just here to formalize your entry into the organization," Syrosk stated. "As Executors, you'll be expected to operate out of a mobile base."

Before Syrosk could explain further, the woman from before returned with a datapad firmly clutched in hand. "Alright, my lords. I need your full names so that I can enter you into the system."

"Asher."

"Fay."

"Graves."

"Uh..." The woman's hand hovered over the datapad, hesitant to input the information. Once again, she softly bit her lip, passing her gaze between the Sith before settling on Syrosk, eyes silently begging for assistance.

"Those are sufficient enough," Syrosk assuaged. The employee offered a dutiful nod as she entered the recruits' information. "We already have their files, I just need you to confirm their entry."

"As you wish, my lord," the woman stated. "I'll need some time to... oh."

"'Oh'?" the three recruits shot back almost simultaneously.

"It would seem you three were ready to be confirmed," the woman revealed. "But... that usually doesn't happen until we have a handler ready to-"

"I'll be acting as their handler. Darth Vowrawn's wishes," Syrosk explained. The woman puzzled for a moment, but took her boss at his word.

"Then I suppose everything should be in order," the woman said. "Your designations will be Executor Five, Executor Six, Executor Sev-"

"When you said there were only a few of you, I thought you meant lower dozens," Asher interrupted. "Not four."

"The other four were my first picks for inclusion. You three were Vowrawn's," Syrosk stated. "Like I said, ours is a new organization and you are amongst the first to join."

"Well then, shouldn't we be, like, numbers one through three?" Asher suggested. "Especially since we're being overseen by number zero?"

"_Everyone_ is overseen by number zero," Syrosk curtly replied. "But it matters not, your number does not denote your rank nor skill."

"Then there's no reason to not bump us up the list a little," Asher said.

Syrosk released a low sigh as he began to rub his leathery brow.

"You really care about what other people think of you, don't you?" Graves calmly asked the burned Sith.

"If that were true, he wouldn't talk as much," Fay added.

"We cannot alter the designations of Executors already in the field," Syrosk rasped. "But..."

"But?" Asher pressed.

"X3 and 4 have not yet been formally initiated, nor do they have the luxury of a Dark Councilor fast-tracking their progress," said Syrosk, almost regretfully. "Should you succeed in your first mission... then you can have numbers three through five."

"Dibs on three!" Asher called out.

"It would have likely been alphabetical, so the gesture is moot," Syrosk stated, taking some solace in taking the minor victory away from the burned Sith.

The tall woman offered a brief shrug. "No protests here."

"Fine by me," Graves added.

Syrosk offered the Imperial who had been standing nearby, frozen and silent, a brief nod dismissing her to her previous duties. "Then if there are no more objections, we can proceed."

The alien slowly made his way deeper into the headquarters, the new recruits following. Spreading out around the galaxy map, the other Imperials gave the group a wide berth.

"Following the war's end, certain sectors were thrown into chaos as numerous planets turned themselves over to the Empire due to the terms of the treaty," Syrosk explained. "We've managed to keep things controlled for now, at least on the macro scale. But spreading our focus over the newly gained territories has caused certain affairs to slip beneath our notice. A number of Imperial facilities have gone dark. Most were simple ag-settlements and manufactories, but one was a weapons research facility."

"Is there an explanation?" asked Graves.

"Independent parties taking advantage of the current climate," said Syrosk. "The war may be over, but both sides are scrambling to keep their affairs in order, allowing pirates and scavengers to hit lesser targets with impunity."

"Someone got cocky and hit an arms facility," Fay suggested.

"More than that, a particular group is broadcasting their exploitation of the situation to the entire galaxy," Syrosk continued. "They say they've got schematics for something big we've been working on, and are looking to sell. They've invited everyone, the Republic, the Cartel, even us."

A quick chuckle from Asher. "How kind of them to sell our own goods back to us."

"Do we have any confirmation they actually have what they're trying to sell?" Fay asked.

"You three are in charge of getting that confirmation," Syrosk stated.

"Seems an odd job for Sith... or Logistics," said Asher.

"The sellers are operating aboard a large freighter tucked away in a debris field," Syrosk explained. "Not cost-effective to send a cruiser or fighter squadron, so we're sending in a strike team."

"Strike team? I assume that means we won't be negotiating?" said Fay, no intonation for her preference.

"Correct," Syrosk replied. "Every Ministry wants an example made of them. They don't want the rest of the galaxy to think we're unprepared to endure the peace."

"And you're entrusting this to us as our first mission?" asked Graves.

"There's a chance they possess nothing and are using this as a ploy to draw gullible parties into a trap," Syrosk explained. "Either way, nothing about the group shows them to be a threat to the three of you, giving your histories and skills."

"I might take that as a compliment if I knew more about them," Asher admitted.

"You'd probably take it as a compliment no matter what," Graves stoically offered, his lack of tone making it difficult to discern whether that was an insult, a simply tease, or a genuine statement of fact.

"What details do we have about them?" Fay asked. "Their numbers? Their vessel? Their armament?"

"The group operates with roughly thirty crewmen," Syrosk replied. "They've almost nothing to warrant an Intelligence profile. Low-level criminal operation based out of a single ship."

"Seems a bit beneath us, but your wish is our command, master," Asher declared with a mock bow.

The alien released a low grumble beneath his breath. "The sellers haven't moved since their initial announcement, so they'll likely remain until they've accomplished whatever their goals are. We won't rush in, but we won't waste time either. You'll move out tomorrow, so rest up and prepare."

"How exactly are we going to meet them?" asked Fay.

"You recall me mentioning Executors working out of a mobile base? Well, you'll be using it to dock with their freighter," said Syrosk.

"Don't tell me you're planning on shoving us into some dank shuttle," Asher muttered.

"Not exactly."

* * *

"Okay... that's impressive," Asher admitted. The burned man and his fellow recruits stood side by side, looking up with wide eyes. Surrounding them was one of the larger single-ship hangars of a Logistics starport. In front of them was a pristine _Fury_-class interceptor.

The vessel sat its large chassis upon three struts attached to its belly. The thing was immense, dozens of meters worth of dark metals stretching in every direction. Standing beneath the craft's engines, the Sith could not even properly see the other end of the starship. The engines themselves each had a diameter surpassing the height of each figure standing beneath them, even the remarkably tall Fay.

The _Fury_ was dominated by black and gray metals, contorted and folded into sharp designs. The ship possessed a flattened shape, but was still tall enough for its interior to function as an expansive domicile. The interceptor itself was larger than the three recruit's apartments put together. But it was more than an assemblage of rooms given the ability of flight. On either side were large cannons attached to the pronged wings. It was a military vessel through and through. A ship made for Sith.

"Why didn't you tell us you were giving us a freakin' cool ship?" Asher blurted out, unable to contain his excitement.

"It's more than a ship," Syrosk declared. "From now on, it will be your new home away from Dromund Kaas."

"My home's a piece of crap compared to this," Asher admitted.

"Well, you'll be glad to know that as Executors, you now qualify for premium housing adjacent to Kaas City's market district," Syrosk stated.

Asher continued to stare at the vessel, unable to wipe the smile from his face. "A steady paycheck. An apartment that isn't half buried in the Kaas Ravines. A freakin' starship! How in the hell do you only have four other Executors? I'd think you'd have Sith signing up left and right for this."

"We're still in the formative stages," Syrosk plainly stated, enduring the burned Sith's exuberance. "Other groups likely won't receive the same exact boons as you three."

"Their loss," Asher blurted out. "Man, I almost don't even want to go home tonight. Can I just sleep in the ship?"

"You'll get nothing if you aren't prepared for the mission tomorrow," Syrosk coldly reminded. Immediately, the warm Sith simmered down. "Treat your task no different than if you were marching into battle. Be ready for conflict, not a day off. Other than that, you're free to leave. Return to the Citadel tomorrow morning. You'll be given more instruction then."

The alien curtly turned his back on the younger Executors, silently making his way for the hangar's exit. Eventually, the elder Sith had disappeared, leaving the other three alone in the shadow of their new vessel.

"I guess he's not much for goodbyes," said Asher.

"You make it a habit of trying to piss off your superiors?" Fay bluntly asked.

"Only when appropriate," Asher replied, no guilt on his part. "The guy came to us with this dream offer. I had to make sure it was genuine."

"I wouldn't consider being an enforcer for the bureaucracy a dream of most Sith," said Fay.

"What I mean is, when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is," Asher explained. "Honestly, we were handpicked by Darth Vowrawn? One of the twelve most influential Sith in the entire freaking Empire? Can any of us explain that? Because I sure as hell can't. But if Syrosk were lying to us, he would have been far less tolerant of us."

"Of _you_," Fay corrected.

"Whatever," Asher dismissed. "But he's genuinely following the orders of a Dark Councilor. One who wanted us to be a part of this thing. He specifically chose the three of us. Now we just need to figure out why."

"Considering how quickly we agreed to join his organization, I'd say that was reason enough to choose us," said Graves.

"Sith don't start groups and not fill them with their own lackeys," Asher stated. "We aren't the only down-and-out Sith after the war ended."

"Maybe we're that perfect mixture of directionless and skilled that he wanted," Graves suggested.

Asher's head dipped. "It sounds rather depressing when you put it like that."

"Whatever the underlying reasons, not having to deal with another 'master' makes it more than worth it," Fay declared.

"Now, that's not a very Sith thing to say," Asher teased. "You can't become the strongest warrior without a master trying to undermine you all the time."

"One, you can. Two, what makes you think I'm interested in being the strongest?" asked Fay.

The burned man arched his brow, passing his eyes up and down the tall woman's developed, muscular arms. "Oh, no reason."

Fay offered a quick shrug. "I'm done for the day. I suggest you two get some rest. I'd hate to have this ruined for me because one of you dies tomorrow."

"D'aww, I'm hurt," Asher replied alongside an exaggerated pout of his burnt lips.

"I'm not," Graves added.

The burned Sith shot his gaze toward his scarred cohort. "Was that a joke, or were you just stating the obvious?"

Graves raised his hand before giving it a little wobble, denoting a little of both.

Turning his head back, Asher saw Fay already making her way toward the hangar's exit. Even from a distance, the definition of her back was noticeable through the tight black shirt that hugged her torso.

"You know, she's kind of cute when she's pouty," Asher casually said.

Graves paused. "I'm usually not one to advice caution, but..."

"What? I'm not intimidated by women bigger than me," Asher declared.

"That's good, considering most women fall into that category," Graves replied. Asher cast his sharpened gaze toward the stoic Sith. It wasn't the words that upset him, but the constantly dry delivery. "Besides, I'm not referring to her size."

"Then what are you referring to?" Asher asked, entertaining his fellow.

"Tell me, when was the last time you met a Sith that managed to survive the Academy without accruing at least one scar?"

Asher arched his brow. "I know it may be a strange concept for someone like you, but most acolytes make it a point to try and dodge at least some of the blows sent their way."

"Someone as large as her would have a target painted on her back the moment she stepped foot in the Academy," Graves suggested. "And she doesn't seem the sort to make it by through favors. She had to fight. A lot. And to walk away unscathed after years of conflict... she's something else."

Asher offered a half-hearted shrug. "Maybe Ziost works differently than Korriban. Why, are you afraid of her or something?"

"I'd just advise not doing anything to piss her off, " said Graves. "Unlike Syrosk, she doesn't have a Dark Councilor she's trying to appease."

The burned Sith remained silent, head slightly dipped as he briefly scrunched his face beneath his bandages. "Well, I guess I've always got you to vent my frustration on."

"I guess you do," Graves replied, completely deadpan. Asher let out a low sigh at his inability to provoke an adequate response out of the scarred Sith. With nothing more to converse about, the burned man made his way toward the hangar's exit, eventually returning to the streets of Kaas City.

Graves stood alone for what felt like minutes, staring at the starship that sat before him. Slowly, he took first step toward the hangar's exit, followed by another. With a heavy gait, the scarred man began his patient trek home.

* * *

Passing over streets of dirt and pavement, Graves made his way through the capital's interior. In every direction, gray buildings rose from the ground, stretching toward the darkened skies. Darkened not by night, but by the persistent storm that made up the planet's atmosphere. Nature itself had become a reflection of those who presided over this world, twisted and unburdened by the light. As the chaotic skies churned, the numerous spires that populated the capital diverted whatever lightning may have been cast its way. Within the city walls, the streets were safe. The Empire had established control amidst the chaos of the jungle planet, and that fact was apparent in every facet of its structure.

Using only his two legs, Graves passed through district after district of the grand metropolis, eventually arriving before an apartment complex hours away from the starport.

The Sith walked with a determined gait, legs untiring, eyes unwandering, perpetually driven forward without a second thought. Entering the complex, he ascended numerous flights of stairs, walked down constricting halls, before finally stopping in front of his home. Unlocking the door, Graves made his way into the compact abode.

No Sith of actual worth would have been content with such a measly domicile as their home. All that greeted the apartment's owner was a sparse living area with an attached kitchenette and a shadowed hall leading to the other half of his home. It conformed to simplistic Imperial designs, dark, uniform materials composing much of the walls and furniture. The walls themselves went completely unadorned and unoccupied. In fact, the only piece of extraneous decoration was a framed picture sitting on the counter separating the living room from the kitchenette, a photo of a diminutive feline resting behind its pane of glass.

Slipping off his heavy jacket, Graves tossed the alcohol-stained garment onto the nearby couch. Without his outer layer, the Sith's asymmetry was revealed. His right arm of flesh. His left arm of cybernetics. The prosthetic resembled hardened musculature, as if the outer skin had been removed, leaving only sinew and underlying bone. The entire arm was composed of gray materials and ended at a graft point around the Sith's left shoulder.

Removing his gloves, his hands matched the arms that preceded them. One of flesh. One of skeletal metals and plastics encased in protective plating. Under the cover of standard garb, the cybernetics were adequately hidden, filling the same dimensions as their natural counterparts.

Journeying deeper into his home, Graves navigated the one brief, unlit corridor. At its end, it branched into two rooms. A bedroom and a restroom. The Sith entered the door on his left and was greeted with a sink and mirror. Looking over his reflected visage, he saw some dried blood still graced the fringes of his head. Running his organic hand under the sink, he began dabbing himself down, trying to clean the effects of the day's earlier confrontation.

Dipping his head, he began examining his scalp, searching for any shards of glass still buried in his flesh. Combing over the surface, he had trouble discerning new indentations from old ones, discerning organic from inorganic material. When he finally saw a piece in the reflection, he would hover his hand over the spot, and the shard would be telekinetically plucked out with the Force.

After a few minutes of trial and error, a few red-stained shards of shattered bottle rest on the sink's edge. The Sith didn't even give them a second thought as he shut off the light, leaving the bathroom in favor of his bedroom.

Sitting himself down on the edge of his meager bed, Graves did nothing but stare at the opposite wall, resting his weight upon his thighs as he leaned forward. For minutes, he simply continue to cast his gaze forward toward the blank, unadorned surface.

Eventually, his eyes left their spot, passing over to the nearby closet. Lifting himself from the bed's edge, the Sith walked over and swung open the doors. Inside, a deconstructed suit of armor lay upon the floor in a disorganized heap. Thick, black armorweave protected by heavy plates. Every single piece possessed countless scratches and scars earned in battle. Gauntlets. Boots. Pauldrons. Chestguard and greaves. The attire of a warrior.

Graves knelt down, staring at the disheveled suit. Extending his hand, he began parsing and separating the pieces before finally reaching behind them. When his hand returned, he held in his grasp a gray hilt.

"It's been a while..."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter ****Five**

The sun had begun to rise above Kaas City, as unapparent its journey was behind the ever present dark clouds that consumed the sky. In the early hours of the morning, the new Executors had returned to their cramped headquarters, ready for instruction from their handler, boss, and master.

Standing around the galaxy map that graced the center of the compact chamber, the Sith looked upon an image focusing somewhere in the Outer Rim. The group's targets had placed themselves amidst neutral territory, just beyond the borders of Imperial or Republic space. Drifting amongst the void, the sellers positioned themselves away from any worlds or space stations. Instead, they surrounded themselves with nothing more than asteroids and debris.

Syrosk remained garbed in the same attire as the day prior, loose-fitting black robes covering him from the neck down. The other Sith however, had prepared themselves for the inevitable conflict.

Graves' was the most drastic change. Trading in his plainclothes attire, he now resembled a proper Sith warrior. He was practically encased in battle attire, armorweave beset by hardened, heavy plating. The black and gray ensemble featured scratches etched into practically every visible surface. Within the suit, the cyborg had retained some measure of symmetry, his prosthetics wrapped and encased in the same armoring as his organic parts. Meanwhile, his scarred head remained completely on display, the suit's protection ending at his neck.

Asher's garb was a set of black robes much as they had been the day prior, albeit with a few alterations. The tight, form-fitting attire had been exchanged for a more baggy set. His pants were tightly fastened around his waist, but hung loose around his legs, puffing out before being constricted beneath the tops of his boots. The burned Sith's torso was covered by multiple layers, a set of black under-robes beset by a heavier, baggier outer coat. The coat was worn loose, apart from the lower extremity secured to his waist via a belt. Its baggy sleeves ended at the Sith's wrapped wrists, and its hood was raised over the wearer's bandaged head, casting it in some modicum of shadows. The ensemble bloated the Sith's frame, hiding the dexterous figure beneath.

Fay's attire had changed the least. Her upper body was still covered only by the black form-fitting compression garb. Her arms still sprouted from the sleeveless shirt, proudly displaying their honed musculature. Her long legs were still covered by a pair of thick cargo pants. Her feet were still encased in a pair of sturdy boots. Her hair was still worn in a singular braid that dangled toward her lower back. In fact, the only difference was the addition of a pair of fingerless gloves. While far from thin, the article possessed little in the way of extra padding or plates, merely serving as covering for the Kineticist's palms.

As the three Sith stood side by side, they were prepared, in both body and mind. They all looked upon the display in front of them with some measure of discipline and duty.

"Our target hasn't moved for the last six days," Syrosk began, his unwavering gaze affixed to the holographic image. Though his voice was neither booming nor domineering, it managed to fill the chamber, equally gracing the ears of all who surrounding him. In his stilled stance, Syrosk stood with his usual upright hunch, arms neatly folded behind his back. The horned alien offered a captivating presence even as he remained motionless, holding the attention of the Imperials, as well as his fellow Sith, by voice alone. "From a defensive perspective, the spot they've chosen puts them at a firm advantage. The surrounding debris field prevents ships from dropping out of hyperspace too close, as well as providing natural cover from aggressors. Can't swarm them. Can't overpower them. Not without them getting away."

"So we play by their rules," Asher suggested, noticeably more level-headed than the day before. "At least, until we can get onboard their ship."

"Precisely," Syrosk replied, eyes still glued to the terminal's image. "You'll show up on their sensors long before you begin your approach. Don't give them any reason to flee."

"What do we do once we're onboard?" asked Graves.

"First priority is determining whether or not they actually have what they say they're selling," Syrosk replied.

"The whole ruse of us being buyers might be hard to maintain once they actually see us," said Asher.

"It falls to you three to figure out how to handle things," Syrosk bluntly stated. "This is your test. How you perform here determines your future as Executors."

"Great, so you're sending us in blind," Asher muttered.

"On the contrary, you'll be given all the information you need," said Syrosk. "It's just up to you to figure out how to use it."

Asher offered an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Oh, well, in that case…"

"In all likelihood, this is just some ploy to scam interested buyers out of their credits or their ships," Syrosk admitted. "But there's always the chance it's not."

Asher head dipped. "Great."

"We can handle it," Fay declared, firm and direct in her tone.

"I expect you to," Syrosk replied. "You can review the mission aboard your ship. Any questions?"

"We going to stay in contact?" asked Asher. "Or is this a 'radio silence' kind of thing?"

"You can always reach the base through your ship's communicator," Syrosk explained. "But barring any emergencies, you won't be receiving additional support."

Asher cocked his head to the side. "What qualifies as an emergency?"

"Don't know, we've not had to deal with one yet," Syrosk plainly stated.

The burned Sith arched his brow, even as it lay hidden beneath a layer of wrapping and shadow. "Is that a good thing… or a bad thing?"

"Neither. It's just the truth," Syrosk rasped. "Though I'd prefer it to stay that way for the time being."

"Makes sense," said Graves.

"Anything else?" Syrosk asked of the three Sith, some level of insistence in his voice.

Asher perked up. "Yeah, who gets to fly the ship?"

"I'm sure that'll be sorted out once you're onboard," Syrosk rasped. The other three Executors shared a series of passing glances.

* * *

"Damn…" Asher muttered.

"Greetings, masters," an overbearingly polite voice spoke up. "I am Astromechanical Logistics Droid 512. It is my duty and privilege to provide you transport wherever you may desire."

Waiting to greet the Sith aboard the _Fury_ was a droid, its humanoid chassis resembling the other protocol and factotum droids used by the Empire rather than the waist-high rollers that typically accompanied starships. Matte gray finish, lanky metallic limbs, a pair of bright red 'eyes' upon its large head.

"Huh, never had a droid before," said Graves.

"Well, I assure you, master, your life will only be enriched by my presence aboard your ship," ALD passionately stated. "Every fiber and circuit of my being is dedicated to serving you in whatever capacity my programming allows."

"What are you programmed for?" Graves patiently asked.

"It has the word 'astromechanical' in its freakin' name, I'm pretty sure it's our pilot," Asher blurted out, voice tinged with disappointment.

"I am capable of more than that, masters," ALD declared. "Since you will be living aboard this vessel, I will gladly maintain your new home and do whatever I can to ensure it is up to your discriminating standards. If you would like, I could give you the tour before we lift off."

Asher let of a brief sigh. "I think we can figure it-"

"Sure," Grave's interrupted

ALD joyfully raised its metallic hands. "Wonderful. If you would follow me, masters." The droid turned its back on the Sith and began making its ways deeper into the vessel.

"Well, go on, follow the droid," Asher muttered, offering a flippant wave of his hand.

"I'm sure if you ask nicely, the droid will let you fly the ship," Graves said, completely deadpan.

Asher released a low huff. "Very funny."

"Wasn't a joke," Graves stoically replied before following the droid deeper into the vessel.

The burned man muttered an inarticulate word beneath his breath, gritting his teeth. Looking up, he saw Fay looking down on him with a firm arch of her brow.

"What?" Asher barked.

"Nothing," Fay calmly replied. Not a moment later, the tall woman made her way deeper into the vessel, leaving Asher standing alone atop the ship's entrance ramp.

The burned Sith released yet another grumble before tapping a nearby control panel with his clenched fist. Slowly, the ramp raised itself, eventually locking in the ship's occupants. Hearing the sounds of the chamber sealing itself, Asher finally made his way deeper into the vessel, passing through a compact passageway before standing side by side with his fellows, ALD patiently waiting in front of them.

"This is the comm room," ALD warmly stated. "It also serves as the ship's shared living space."

The Sith looked with wide eyes at the open chamber. In its center sat a sizable holoterminal, capable of intragalactic communications, but surrounding the device was a sparsely populated floor, little more than the occasional couch lining the nearby walls. The ship's interior possessed the similar aesthetic as the outer chassis. Black and gray metals. Simultaneously sharp and smooth. Angular and domineering. From the red lights to the exposed pipes beneath grated floors, there were touches of Sith and Imperial designs etched into every visible surface, all capitalized by the banners that hung from the chamber walls. And this was all just a single room.

"Thing's bigger than my entire home," Asher muttered.

"Same," said Fay.

"Yup," Graves added.

"Attached is the ship's medical bay, cockpit, and primary bedroom," ALD continued. "From here, the left and right wings are separated by bulkhead doors. If you'll follow me." The droid led the Sith through the open door to the right, walking down the unconstricting passageway beyond. "The right wing is dedicated to storage and engineering."

The corridor emptied into two rooms. The one closer to the ship's rear featured a mechanical console as well as direct access to the _Fury_'s right engine. The turbine of energy and metal churned as the room was bathed in industrial sounds even as the ship sat idled. The second room that extended forward into the right wing was a storage bay, home to lockers and bins as well as a number of panels built into the floor and walls, hiding even more empty space beyond them.

Reentering the comm room, the droid led the group toward the left wing. Before reaching the next bulkhead door, two rooms sat adjacent to the shared living space. Nearer the ship's entrance was a compact medical facility, home to a couple of beds as well as a standing kolto tank, large enough for the full submersion of any injured person. Nearer the ship's cockpit was a bedroom, home to a bed more than capable of comfortably containing even the largest Sith.

"The left wing features more living space, as well as a conference room," ALD stated as he passed through the open bulkhead.

This ship's left corridor mirrored its counterpart, opening into two rooms. The one nearer the ship's rear featured a number of stacked bunks inlayed with the wall, storage panels built alongside them. The room that extended deeper into the left wing was a meeting room featuring a number of chairs situated around a large table.

"Of course, this ship has not yet been fully stocked or furnished, but I assure you, masters, it will far exceed your expectations in time," ALD declared.

"It already has," said Graves.

"The only question is, who gets the luxury bedroom?" Asher asked.

"Best choice would be no one. Better to gut it and turn it into something more practical," Fay plainly stated before a pause. "But I don't think I'll be fitting any of the bunks."

"Hey, if you want to share a living space, I'd be happy to oblige," Asher brazenly replied.

"It's a _ship_," said Fay. "We're sharing a living space no matter what."

"How modular are these rooms?" Graves asked of the droid.

"Modular?" ALD repeated, processing the inquiry. "I suppose nothing in the left wing is truly unchangeable."

"Any meetings can be held in the comm room," Graves suggested. "How about we gut the conference and bunk rooms, turn them into private quarters. That'll give us three bedrooms that we can change to suit our preferences."

"Not a bad idea," Asher admitted.

"Fine by me," Fay added. "Of course, none of this matters if we fail our mission."

"Then let's not waste any more time," said Graves. The scarred man turned toward the droid. "Has our boss sent you the details of our task?"

"Yes, master," ALD declared. "Would you like me to prepare for launch?"

Graves nodded. "Go ahead."

"At once, master," ALD replied with a dutiful dip of his metallic dome. The droid made its way toward the cockpit, leaving the Sith alone with each other once more.

The three Executors looked to each other, locking eyes with one before turning to the second.

"So I guess we're all roommates now," said Asher, no intonation in his voice. "Weird."

"That's the weirdest part of all this for you?" Fay asked.

"Is this where you saw your life heading a few days ago?" Asher replied.

"Fair point."

The ship seemed to come alive around the Sith, the sounds of the engines priming and roaring filling the vessel's chambers.

"I guess we're taking off," Graves stated. "About to pass the point of no return."

"Were you planning on turning back?" asked Asher.

"Not at all. You?"

"Eh. I wanted to get a good look at the ship first," Asher admitted. "I think I can stand to bust a few pirate heads for Logistics if this is what they're offering."

"A man of simple tastes," Graves stated.

Asher gave an exaggerated shrug. "What can I say? I like what I like."

"Are you two done?" asked Fay. "We have a mission to prepare for."

"She's right, let's go over the data from Syrosk," Graves suggested.

"What's to go over?" Asher asked. "All he's given us is a target and a destination."

Fay gave the burned Sith a stern arch of her brow. "Since we're working with so little, it seems prudent to have a plan of action then, doesn't it?"

"Plans only work when you've got a foundation to build on," Asher explained. "If we had more information, sure I'd be all about making a plan. But with what we've got, chances are it'll just fall to pieces the second we step off this ship."

"Kind of a defeatist attitude," Fay replied.

"It has nothing to do with defeat, it's merely statistics," said Asher. "Too many variables to account for, especially aboard an enemy ship. Did you know that a majority of Sith fatalities that aren't low-level grunts occur in space?"

"And that fact makes you _not_ want to formulate a plan?"

"It's because things never go according to plan in space, so why bother with a plan? Keep your mind so focused on sticking to some arbitrary guidelines you've set for yourself and you die, plain and simple. Being somewhat prepared for everything is better than being totally prepared for one thing."

"Is the ability to set things on fire your way of 'being prepared for everything'?" asked Graves.

"Considering the amount of flammable things in the galaxy, yes," Asher stated.

A quick sigh from Fay. "If you're going to set anything on fire, please warn us ahead of time."

"I can do that much," Asher replied, gently rubbing his chin.

The vessel shook as its engines kicked into action. Moving beyond the threshold of the Kaas starport, the _Fury_ propelled itself into the sky, soaring above the capital city and the surrounding forests. Higher and higher it ascended, passing through the dark and crackling skies, not ceasing until it was past the planet's perpetually chaotic atmosphere.

Within the ship, the three Sith maneuvered themselves toward the cockpit. Inside, the droid had positioned itself in one of the three seats situated around the vessel's main console. Beyond the central viewport, the starry veil of the endless void stretched out in front of them. Even as the mechanical pilot had connected itself to the console via a cable, its metallic hands darted across the ship's controls. From its single seat, it controlled every aspect of the vessel's being. Always monitoring. Ever regulating.

The cockpit was a dazzling array of readouts and lights as seemingly every surface was occupied by some console or terminal. The displays presented their readings, information firing off like the ship's nerves. Within the cold blackness of space, within the cool grayness of the cockpit, there was a warmth. A sense of fulfilled purpose. Every individual piece was working in tandem to drive the vessel forward. Each light a spark. Each sound a cheer. A display of function.

And standing amongst it were the Executors. Three misfits in the eyes of the Empire. In the eyes of the Sith. Three individuals defined by their physicality. Three individuals of differing mentality. Three individuals, individuals no longer.

"Masters, shall I make the jump to hyperspace?" ALD asked, still manipulating the ship's controls.

The Executors looked to one another, each sharing a confident nod.

"Hit it."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Beyond the viewport of the _Fury_'s cockpit, the swirling tunnel of hyperspace surrounded the vessel as it covered the distance of star systems in a matter of minutes. As the ship's mechanical pilot guided the interceptor toward its destination, the three Sith remained close by, patiently waiting for their return to realspace.

Asher and Graves had planted themselves in the two unoccupied seats of the cockpit whilst Fay stood resolutely behind them, arms tightly crossed. As the armored warrior and the Kineticist remained utterly stilled, the burned Sith couldn't help but fidget in his chair.

"Trouble, Asher?" Graves asked.

"Can't get comfortable," Asher muttered. "Seat needs padding or something."

Graves stared as the burned Sith continued to jostle. "You want to make a request when we get back? As long as we're making modifications to the ship…"

"You could always just stand," Fay bluntly stated.

"How are those high ceilings treating you, Fay?" Asher deflected.

"Just fine, thanks for asking," she replied, deadpan, still maintaining her rigid upright stance.

The burned Sith shifted in his seat, accompanied by the sounds of rustling robes as well as a few subtle clinks. Finally the hooded man released a low growl as he pushed himself up and out of his seat. "You know what? Standing's fine."

Asher maneuvered around the now empty seat, standing beside his towering teammate. Side by side, there was a remarkable height discrepancy between the pair, the hooded man's head not even reaching above the Kineticist's shoulders. The discrepancy slightly grew as Asher slumped where he stood.

"Now what's wrong?" Fay asked, more inquisitive than concerned.

"Oh, nothing," Asher muttered, before turning toward the droid. "How long until we arrive?"

"A matter of minutes, master," ALD answered, exuberant as ever.

Asher's head dipped further as he rubbed his brow. "I'd prefer actual measures to niceties."

"The nature of hyperspace makes accurate measures difficult, even for a droid," Graves stated.

"I suppose one emotionless machine is enough for this team," said Asher.

"I'm not emotionless," Graves stoically replied.

A brief chuckle from Asher. "Not going to deny the machine part?"

Graves raised his left arm. "I literally have machine parts."

"Got me there."

"Technically, you 'got me there'," said Graves, waving his mechanical limb.

"Am I the only one who finds it weird how friendly you two are?" Fay asked. "I mean, you cut off his arm. You burned off his face."

"Well, we have to work together now, so it's not really worth fighting anymore," Asher declared. "You weren't there yet, but we weren't exactly cordial when Syrosk introduced us back at the Citadel."

"It's just that I've seen Sith start vendettas over far less," said Fay.

"I guess we're not normal Sith," Graves plainly stated.

"Don't get me wrong," said Asher, "if Syrosk came to me and said I'd get a ship if I killed him rather than worked with him, I'd agree in a heartbeat."

"I can't question his logic," Graves admitted.

"Would that extend to me as well?" asked Fay.

The burned Sith began scratching his chin, smirk growing wider. "That depends, could you offer me anything better than a ship?"

"You really want me to hurt you, don't you?" Fay muttered.

"Given your size, I think I'd be hurt regardless of my wishes," Asher warmly said, not backing down. "But what is pleasure without a little pain?"

Fay released a single chuckle. "What makes you think you'd stand any chance with me?"

"What makes you think I wouldn't?" Asher snarked.

"Weak men don't rank high on my list of potential mates," Fay declared.

"Is it the 'weak' part or the 'men' part?" Asher teased. The tall woman simply offered the silent arch of her brow. "Or maybe you're one of those 'beat me to bed me' types of Sith?"

"If that were true, I'd wind up dying alone," Fay replied, wearing a smirk of her own.

"Humble."

There was a subtle shake as the hyperspace tunnel collapsed around the vessel. The Sith watched as the streaks of light across the astral void shortened, until finally returning to starry dots upon the infinite black canvas. Ahead of the _Fury_, a debris field of asteroids and scrapped warships weightlessly drifted amongst the vacuum.

"Nothing puts the mind at ease like seeing a field of wreckage in front of you," Asher snarked.

"Our sellers didn't cause this, or rather, they didn't destroy these ships," Fay suggested. "The amount of Imperial and Republic vessels suggests they're casualties from the war."

Graves leaned forward as he stared out the forward viewport. "Seems like an odd place to have a battle."

"There might not have been one here," said Asher. "With enough time and effort, all you need is a tractor beam and you can create your own debris field."

"So they've surrounded themselves with scavenged corpses," Fay stated. "Seems like a lot of effort to scam potential buyers. But also a lot of preparation for a simple handover."

"Maybe we really should have come up with a plan..." Asher muttered. The other two Sith stared down the burned man, Graves turning around in his chair to do so. Asher let out a light snicker. "Kidding. We've got nothing to worry about."

"Masters, we have an incoming communication," ALD sounded off.

"Well, that was quick," said Asher.

"Let them through," Graves directed. The droid went to work opening up a channel with the unseen sellers.

"Unidentified vessel, state your name and purpose." The gravelly voice filled the cockpit, pouring out from a number of speakers. The three Sith looked around, scanning the surrounding walls and consoles.

"Uh, do we even have a comm in here?" Asher asked. The droid extended its metallic hand, pointing toward a nondescript panel on the wall behind them. Moving himself closer, the burned Sith readied himself to reply. "Alright, let's do this."

"Is he really the one we want speaking on our behalf?" Fay asked.

"Too late," Asher blurted out as he held his finger on the panel's switch. "We're agents of the Sith Empire's Ministry of Production and Logistics. You know why we're here."

The Sith spoke firmly and directly, not wasting a moment between words. There was a pause on other end of the communicator.

"Smooth," Graves quietly said before receiving a hushing wave from Asher's hand.

The gravelly voice returned. "If you were looking to make a deal, you wouldn't have arrived in a warship."

"Every ship in the Empire is a warship, it's kind of our thing," Asher bluntly stated. "We can power down our weapons. We just want to keep our schematics ours."

There was another pause. "Alright. We're transmitting a vector now. Follow it, and prepare for further instruction."

Asher lifted his finger from the panel and greeted his compatriots with an flourished bow. "And done."

"Impressive," Graves admitted.

"Be too nice to pirates and they know something's up," Asher explained. "Gotta be firm, but accommodating."

"Of which you're usually neither," Fay sternly replied.

"I'm all about putting on a face," Asher said with another dip of his hooded head. "You ready to move, droid?"

"I've received the seller's instructions," ALD stated. "Moving out now."

The engines pushed the vessel forward, over and around the numerous pieces of debris that were scattered in front of the ship. The pieces of rock and metal floated and drifted, threatening to crush unwary travelers, but the trajectory provided by the sellers guided them through the field with ease. After a few short minutes of sublight flight, the target was within their sights.

A single vessel sat comfortably in the middle of the debris field, none of the surrounding pieces nearing the safe haven around it. Idling amongst the void, the ship was larger than the Sith's, but far smaller than anything nearing a capital ship. The vessel's boxy frame and utilitarian design suggested its function as a heavy duty cargo freighter, but the aftermarket turrets affixed to the various surfaces spoke of something more than simple trading.

The Sith watched as the droid guided them ever closer, but as they neared the other vessel, they realized it didn't possess anything resembling a hangar.

"I wonder how they expect us to dock," said Graves.

As the _Fury_ slowly drifted closer to the freighter's side, the interceptor aligned itself parallel with the sellers, only a barely measurable gap resting between them. Breaking the silence was a familiar voice sounding off over the cockpit's speakers.

"Have all occupants exit the ship and be prepared to surrender any weapons you might be carrying," the gravelly voice instructed.

"Are we actually going to do that?" asked Asher.

"We have to," Graves declared.

"Not really, we can just storm the place now if we wanted."

"Just do what they say for now," Fay suggested.

Asher shot a sharpened glance toward his teammate. "Easy for you to say, you don't need a weapon."

"You're Sith, you shouldn't either," Fay replied.

Asher released a huff as he made his way out of the cockpit. "Whatever, let's just go."

"There's still the matter of getting on the ship," Graves stated. "We haven't latched onto them yet."

"Actually, master," ALD spoke up, "the ship is showing a seal around our exterior hatch. It should be safe to exit."

"Should be?"

Graves slowly lifted himself from his seat. Together, he and Fay made their way toward the rear of the ship, rejoining Asher. Passing through a bulkhead door, the trio of Sith found themselves standing in the rear chamber of the _Fury_, which was occupied by nothing more than a series of stairs and a raised entrance ramp.

"Surely there are safety overrides that wouldn't let us lower the ramp in a vacuum, right?" Asher hesitantly asked, hands hovering over the ramp's controls. He received no reply. "Oh, well. Here it goes."

Punching the panel, there was a soft squeal as the ship's pressure released and the entrance ramp slowly descended. As the exit cracked open, the Executors were relieved at the distinct lack of all the air rushing out of the chamber and them being sucked into the void. As it descended further, the Sith caught a glimpse of the endless blackness that was space between the two ships.

"That's… new," Asher muttered. Taking a careful step down the ramp, the burned Sith saw that as close as the two ships were, they were not physically connected. At the bottom of the ramp, as he felt himself being less controlled by the _Fury_'s artificial gravity, it was as if the Sith was standing in the vacuum of space. Examining his surroundings, only by focusing his eyes could he see the slight shimmer between him and the surrounding void. Opposite the lowered ramp, a single hatch lay open on the freighter's exterior hull. A walkway slowly extended itself from the opened hatch, stopping just short of contact with the Sith's ramp. "Rather ingenious."

"What is?" Graves asked from the top of the ramp.

"They've raised a forcefield between the two ships," Asher explained. "You know the barriers hangars use to keep in atmosphere? It's like that, only a bubble instead of a wall."

"So we can get over?"

"Yeah, just… watch your step," Asher called back. The burned Sith attempted to step onto the thin walkway that bridged the two vessels, but the weakened gravity make it troubling to do so. Instead, he pushed himself off of the ramp, gliding over and into the exposed hatch of the freighter. Graves followed, making his way down and over with an uncoordinated stumbling. As Fay made her way down the ramp, however, she kept her feet in full contact with the solid surface below. With the power of the Force, she was able to push down on herself, securing her boots to the walkway as she calmly walked into the open hatch. Rejoining her fellows, she found Asher shooting her a sharpened glare.

"Show off," Asher muttered. Suddenly the hatch began to close behind them, effectively cutting them off from their vessel. "Pretty well-organized operation they got going on here."

"I think we may have trouble returning to the ship," Graves stated, absent any emotion.

Asher cocked his head as he starred at his scarred fellow. "Oh, really? You think? All they have to do is lower that field and we're stranded here."

The three Sith now found themselves sealed within a compact chamber. The walls lacked the _Fury_'s sleek designs, instead possessing an industrial feel. Unsymmetrical panels, exposed pipes and wiring, brown and gray metals dominating every surface. The boxy room had two reinforced doors opposite each other. One opened into the emptiness of space. The other connected the chamber to the ship's interior.

The Sith readied themselves as the interior hatch slowly parted, revealing a small group of armed men. Garbed in mercenary attire, the roughened figures lacked heavy armoring, but were outfitted with tactical gear. Thick clothes, bandoliers, rifles shouldered and at the ready. Three men to match the three Sith, as oddly matched they were.

One of the pirates stepped forward.

"Who in the hell are you?" the lead pirate sternly asked.

"We're from Logistics," Graves answered.

The pirate sharpened his gaze. "You're Sith."

"We're Sith from Logistics," Asher clarified.

The pirate was visibly, and soon audibly, upset. "Why didn't you say you were Sith?"

"You didn't ask," Graves plainly stated.

The pirates remained silent, keeping their weapons trained on the stalwart group of Sith. As the lead pirate sharpened his gaze, one of his cohorts leaned in close, whispering something into his ear.

"Shut it," the pirate quietly shot back. The group leader's eyes passed over each of the Sith one at a time, pace increasing with each individual. "This doesn't change anything. Sith, surrender your weapons."

Graves was the first to comply, almost immediately reaching for his weapon. As the armored figure's hand drifted toward his belt, the pirates pointed their rifles toward him, cautious of his every movement. The scarred Sith proceeded slowly, making sure not to startle the gunmen. Extending his hand, Graves offered the plain hilt to the greeters without any fuss.

"Now, you two," the lead pirate barked. With a heavy sigh, Asher reached into the folds of his robes and retrieved the black hilt that was his lightsaber. With the two men holding out their sabers, the pirates focused on the tall woman who remained stilled, her arms crossed. "Give us your weapon."

"I don't have one," Fay declared.

"Raj, pat her down, make sure she's not hiding anything," the lead pirate said to his subordinate. The gunman to his left bounced his gaze between the woman and his boss. Fay's eyes sharpened as she stared down the hesitant pirate.

"Uh, I don't know, boss…" the underling muttered.

"Do it!"

The underling lowered his weapon, taking a hesitant step toward the towering Sith.

The powerful figure looked down upon him, making him shrink under her equally powerful gaze. "Lay a hand on me… and I'm keeping it."

"Uh, I think she's clean, boss," the underling said, turning back toward the group's leader. "I mean, she's got like, four pockets, none of them big enough to hold a weapon."

The pirate leader released a hardened grumble beneath his breath. Lowering his weapon, he stepped forward, taking the lightsabers from the Asher and Graves and clipping them to his belt.

"So, you have what we asked for?" the group's boss asked the Sith.

"We're here to negotiate," Asher declared.

"Well, we're not," the pirate sternly replied. "Do you have the credits or not?"

"We do. But they stay aboard the ship until we know you have the schematics," Asher explained.

"Anyone else aboard your ship?"

"Just our droid pilot. Kind of annoying," Asher admitted. The pirate sharpened his gaze, letting the silence consume the room. "Look we're in a hurry. Believe it or not, we're needed elsewhere."

The pirate's face contorted, bordering on a snarl. "Fine. Follow me. Don't do anything stupid.

Lowering their rifles, but keeping them firmly in hand, the pirates slowly backed out of the chamber. The group's leader continued walking down the connecting corridor, whilst his underlings took pause. Only after the three Sith moved inward did they begin to follow. Pirates to their front and back, the Executors offered no protests as they were guided down the rustic passageway.

The six figures journeyed toward the freighter's core, surrounded by the unsophisticated designs of the neutral vessel. The corridor was tight and constricting, Fay almost having to duck to comfortably make her way through. Though the freighter was larger than the sizable interceptor the Sith had arrived in, it wasn't grand enough to allow long treks within its halls. Soon, the pirates had led the trio to the vessel's primary cargo bay.

Passing through a set of parted, reinforced doors, the group stepped into an open chamber filled to the brim with storage containers. A square panel the size of a starfighter graced the floor, warning stripes gracing its borders, the primary means of loading and unloaded cargo. Surrounding it, crates were stacked upon each other, forming walls and towers just shy of touching the bay's high ceiling.

"Oh, I wonder which of these crates contains our electronic schematics," said Asher, oozing sarcasm.

As if on cue, a number of pirates emerged from the shadows. Stepping from behind the stacked crates, more than a dozen gunmen walked into view, each outfitted with the same garb and armament as their brothers. Soon, the Sith found nearly twenty barrels pointed toward them, ready to release a flurry of bolts at a moment's notice. The chamber went quiet, until the silence was broken by a series of calm, steady footsteps.

Stepping from the shadows on the opposite side of the cargo bay, a lone figure made himself known. Unlike his fellows, he did not possess the same uniform appearance. Instead, he was garbed in a reinforced longcoat that dangled to his knees. The Human's head was shaved, his face grizzled and home to a barbed tattoo that covered his left cheek and descended beneath his neckline. The handle of a heavy blaster pistol peeked up from his belt.

"I am sorry to say… but I'm afraid there are no schematics," the figure declared. He spoke with the sardonic charisma befitting the captain of a band of pirates.

The three pirates that had led the Sith into the chamber circled around them, never letting them out of their sight as they joined their fellows near the stacked crates. The Executors were now staring down a firing line, overseen by a longcoat-wearing, tattoo-having, pirate-leading captain.

"I'm starting to think this was a trap," Graves calmly stated. The others remained silent, Asher opting only to rub the brow beneath his hood.

"A _Fury_-class interceptor. Now that's what I call a get," the captain spoke up, every word tinged with a smugness and superiority. "Raker, board their ship. Make sure there aren't any surprises waiting for us."

"Well, we can scratch ship-thieves off the list," Asher muttered.

The pirate that previously led the first group the Sith encountered broke away from his fellows, following his captain's command. The Executors' weapons still clipped to his belt, he calmly made his way toward the chamber's entrance whilst the rest of the pirate crew maintained their positions, keeping their rifles drawn upon the Sith.

Stepping past the trio, the departing pirate almost reached the connecting hallway before stopping dead in his tracks. Tilting his head to the side, the captain puzzled over his stilled underling. He stood frozen, as if in mid-step.

"Raker, what's the hold up?" the captain shouted.

There was no answer. And as the cargo bay slowly became consumed with silence, the subtle sounds of a man struggling to draw breath filled the chamber. As the pirate was slowly being asphyxiated, he could not even clutch at his throat as an invisible force enwrapped every fiber of his being, slowly crushing him.

Their focus drawn to their suffering compatriot, no one noticed the tall woman's eyes growing sharper as they maintained their forward focus, her fists clenching tighter and tighter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Amidst the shadows of the crate-laden cargo bay, the pirate underlings struggled to contain their brewing panic as they watched their compatriot slowly buckle under the crushing weight of the Force. Eventually, the hardened criminal collapsed, hitting the metallic flooring with a heavy thud, utterly stilled. Even as they stood shoulder to shoulder, their weapons raised and at the ready, fear began to creep into the pirate crew as they focused on their now lifeless compatriot. Their grips faltered and their legs shook, all the while the three Sith maintained their unfaltering stances, wearing faces of stone.

Just as silence threatened to devour the chamber once more, the cargo bay was filled with the sounds of a single man's slow clap. Stepping forward, the pirate captain possessed none of the trepidation or fear that had been instilled in his crewmen. Instead, he wore only a smarmy smile upon his grizzled face, continuing to petulantly clap his hands together.

"Well done, Sith," the captain spoke up, each word painfully drawn out. "Color me impressed. Fortunately, none of us liked Raker that much. Unfortunately, you've still got a score of rifles ready to cut you down. I know you Sith like to think you're the greatest thing this galaxy has to offer, but you're not blasterproof. I should know. I've fought my fair share of your kind. You see…"

Whilst the captain captivated his crewmen with his stirring monologue, the Sith remained less than enthused.

"Asher," Graves whispered, keeping his head forward facing. "I notice you don't have a flask on your belt."

"Stopped using the flask a while ago," Asher whispered back. "But I take it you want some fire?"

"We could use a distraction," Graves quietly suggested. "Fay, can you get us our sabers?"

"They're already unhooked. Just need the signal."

"Can you handle gunmen without a weapon?" asked Graves.

"Not an issue," Fay quietly, but firmly, declared.

"…and for that one, I didn't even have my trusty blaster," the pirate captain prattled on, blissfully unaware of the Sith's musings as he paced and pontificated. "Only had a knife. Guy had a freakin' laser sword, and he couldn't stop me from plunging my blade into his neck. And as I watched him fall, as I watched him squirm…"

"Are you still talking?" Graves interrupted, a slight bite to his usual stoicism. The pirate captain stopped his pacing, shooting a harsh glare at the Sith. They stood unmoved, unimpressed, standing as they always had with their arms crossed. But even as dozens of eyes fell upon the Sith, none of the gunmen noticed the hooded figure's fingers slipping beneath the folds of his outer coat.

As the captain's face twisted into a snarl, he forced out a harsh cackle. "If you're so eager to die, then so be it. Men! Ready... aim..."

"Fire!" Graves shouted.

On cue, Asher removed his hand from beneath his robes holding a small ampoule between his fingers. The thumb-sized casing was clear, cylindrical, and contained within it a dark, murky liquid. Winding his hand back, Asher flung the container toward the pirates. Time slowed to a crawl for the Sith as the ampoule flew through the air with a precise arc. Focusing his mind, the burned Sith drew in a quick breath as he clenched his fist.

In an instant, the ampoule shattered, the liquid inside expanding into a cloud of mist guided by the Force. The scattered droplets of fuel moved in accordance with a mixture of gravity and the Sith's pressing will. The reaction was already underway, fumes from the concoction supplanted the surrounding oxygen. In a matter of moments, the cloud had spread amongst the pirates, even as their fingers still sought out their blasters' triggers. The first to release a bolt would have ignited the cloud, but the burned Sith would not let another steal that privilege.

His eyes closed, his mind focused, his hand extended, only now did Asher exhale. And alongside his exhalation, came the quick snap of his fingers. A spark originated in the center of the cloud. Not lightning. Not something connected to the Sith's digits. A spark willed into existence by Asher, ready to ignite its surroundings. The conditions were perfect for the flame to spread, and the conditions were perfect because of the creator's calculating mind. The point of origin, the size of the cloud, the fuel-to-air mixture, all born from Asher's subtle manipulations. It wasn't a storm of dark energies or moving the unmovable, but it was a display of the Sith's Force prowess.

No more than three seconds had passed since the burned Sith released the ampoule and already the other side of the cargo bay had been overwhelmed with flame. The fireball lacked the concussive force of an explosion, and the fuel would soon be consumed, but the intense flash of light and heat forced the pirates to shield their faces from the blast.

Unfazed by the display, the other Sith had made their move. Holding out her hand, Fay secured a telekinetic grip on the lightsabers still gracing the nearby corpse. With a precise sweep of her arm, she flung the hilts through the air and toward their respective owners. Hands held high, Asher and Graves took a firm grip on their weapons as the sights and sounds of two red blades of plasma leaving their hilts filled the chamber.

By now, the fiery plume had run its course, leaving little more than light singes in its wake. But now, the pirates were staring down three primed and ready Sith. Gone were the upright, stoic beings that stood before them prior. Now, three powerful figures had their weapons and hands raised, eager to put them to use.

"What are you waiting for? Kill them!" the pirate captain shouted, wrapping his hand around the heavy pistol tucked beneath his belt. Before the first gunman squeezed their trigger, the Sith were already on the move. Launching themselves into the fray, Asher, Graves, and Fay went to work cutting and knocking down the pirates nearest them as yellow bolts of energy left the pirates' weapons.

Asher moved in accordance with his smaller, slighter frame, ducking and weaving his way forward. His saber movements utilized dexterity over raw power, precise jabs coupled with flowing arcs that allowed neither an opening nor a wasted motion. Saber in one hand, the other moved in tandem with the Sith's rhythm, disrupting and offsetting the pirates for the ensuing blow. The burned Sith's fingers would grace the barrel of a rifle, shoving it out of the way and clearing a path for the beam of plasma to effortlessly plunge itself into the gunman's torso.

Graves, by comparison, was a sluggish brute, but no less effective. He bridged the gap between himself and his target with a lumbering charge, raising his weapon high before bringing it down with a heavy swipe. His wide open swings would have been criticized by anyone considering themselves a proper duelist, but they served the scarred warrior just fine. Whilst he dodged most of the bolts sent his way, those that did manage to strike the Sith prompted no response. No signal of pain, not even an altered step of the charging warrior.

Fay proceeded with a remarkable mixture of physical power and grace. Without a weapon, her only tool was her body and the Force, both of which she put to expert use. Gliding along the floor as she approached her target, she aptly dodged the first blaster bolt sent her way, deftly moving her large frame out of its path. Reaching out with her hand, she took a firm grasp of a pirate's shirt, effortlessly lifting him into the air. A moment later, she single-handedly threw him toward his compatriots, her first target having been turned into a projectile. The flung body found itself propelled by a mixture of muscle and the Force, slamming against its fellows with deadly impact.

The first members of the pirate crew had already fallen at the hands of the Sith and more would soon follow as they methodically made their way toward the other end of the chamber, dodging or enduring blaster fire, cutting down or crushing their foes.

With a snarl, the pirate captain held out his pistol and took careful aim at the sloppy warrior that was slowly cutting a path through his men. The marksman directed the barrel toward the scarred Sith's unprotected head and released a single bolt.

As the shot flew toward the target, Graves saw only the approaching glow out of the corner of his eye. But before he could even react, another light had interceded. Stepping between the armored warrior and the blaster bolt, Asher deftly deflected the shot back at its source. The bolt surged back across the chamber, striking the weapon that had released it. The ensuing blast destroyed the captain's weapon and almost blew off his fingers.

The sounds of hearty cursing filling the background, the armored Sith cut down the pirate in front of him before looking to his savior.

"Thanks," Graves calmly called out.

"Don't mention it," Asher shot back, returning to the fold with a quick step.

Lifting one of the many stacked crates with the Force, Fay sent the heavy box crashing into another grouping of pirates. As she sought out her next targets, she saw the pirate captain slinking out the back of the cargo bay, clutching at his injured hand.

"Captain's making a run for it!" Fay declared.

"I'm on it," Asher shouted back, pulling his blade out of an impaled gunman. Keeping his head low, the hooded Sith made his way toward the back of the cargo bay with a series of quick, yet calculated, steps. Ducking and weaving through the pirates in his path, the dexterous Sith effortlessly made his way across the chamber, ready to follow the retreating captain.

Less than half of the pirates remaining, Graves and Fay continued without Asher, taking down the still-standing gunmen. Through Force pushes and waves, the Kineticist sent anyone who stood in her way flying across the cargo bay, slamming them into the nearby walls and stacks of crates. As her final target rest within her sights, he pointed his weapon not toward her, but the armored warrior. Thrusting out a hand, she focused on the rifle's barrel just as its wielder pulled the trigger. Manipulating the gun rather than the gunman, a bolt of energy tried to leave the barrel but found itself impeded by an invisible blockage. With nowhere to go, the energy dispersed outward, causing the rifle to malfunction and explode. Shaken but narrowly avoiding injury, the pirate dropped the shattered heap of metal to the ground. As the tall woman slowly made her way toward him, the unarmed pirate threw his hands into the air, trying to suppress the fear readily apparent on his face.

"I give up!" the pirate wailed. As Fay came to a stop in front of him, she towered over the pirate, casting upon him her stern glare. Not a bead of sweat gracing her brow, the Sith's visage seemed utterly unaffected by inconvenience.

"I'm sure you do," Fay calmly stated. Before the pirate could react, he found the back of the woman's hand lightly striking his forehead. Despite looking like nothing more than a simple tap, the blow sent the pirate crumbling to the ground, unconscious. Turning toward her companion, Fay saw the last of the pirates had been dealt with by Graves. As the armored warrior righted himself, his attire was home to a new batch of scuffs and scorch marks, but the scarred man seemed unaffected, calmly shutting off his saber and returning it to his belt.

Looking around, Graves surveyed the cargo bay. More than a dozen pirates lay stilled upon the metal flooring. Some had been cut and pierced, others lay crushed against the wall or beneath a disrupted pile of crates. The chamber had returned to a state of silence.

"Do you think Asher got him?" asked Graves.

* * *

Stopping at a branching path, the hooded Sith hastily looked down each hallway, wrapped face basking in the red glow of his lightsaber. Almost missing it, Asher saw the tail of the captain's longcoat as he turned a corner deeper into the vessel. Rushing after him, the Sith ran down the constricting corridor, the tip of his saber sparking against the nearby walls.

Rounding the same corner, Asher saw the captain running down a straight. Following him, the hooded Sith was slowly but surely bridging the gap with his superior speed. Before he could catch up, however, the pirate leader passed through a door at the end of the hall. Sealing it behind him, the captain had cut himself off from his pursuer in the freighter's cockpit. Unable to halt his stride, Asher slammed into the locked door with a solid thud.

"Damn it," Asher muttered, clutching at the shoulder that had absorbed the impact of the metallic surface. Looking up and down the reinforced door, the hooded Sith remained calm as he carefully inserted the tip of his blade into the barrier. Molten metal surrounded the beam of plasma as its wielder slowly carved a man-sized circle into the door.

After a minute of cutting, Asher kicked in the heavy slab, gaining sight and access into the freighter's cockpit. Backed into a corner near the ship's controls was the pirate captain, eyeing his pursuer with a mixture of hatred and trepidation. As the Sith carefully maneuvered through the still-molten hole he had cut out of the door, the pirate released another of his trademark cackles.

"You're too late, Sith," the captain snarled.

Asher offered a dismissing scoff. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm sure I can undo whatever it is you think you've done."

"You think you can come onto _my_ ship? Kill _my_ crew and get away with it?"

"Hey, _you_ invited _us_," Asher replied. "You don't want the Empire knocking at your door? Don't go around saying you stole from the freakin' Empire!"

The captain's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You weren't the first people we lured here, and you weren't the last."

Asher offered a curious arch of his bandaged brow. Before the Sith could inquire further, the captain reached behind his back, returning with a blade in his hand. Brandishing a top-of-the-line vibroknife, the pirate readied himself.

"Someone else will deal with your friends," the captain muttered. "I'll take care of you myself."

Asher released a low sigh, lowering his saber, holding it at his side. The pirate puzzled as the Sith seemed utterly disinterested. In one deft movement of his free hand, Asher reached beneath the folds of his coat and returned gripping a holdout blaster. Panic washed over the pirate for a single moment before a red bolt released from the compact pistol planted itself between the captain's eyes. The pirate fell back against the ship's primary console before slumping lifelessly to the ground.

Just as quickly as he had brandished it, Asher returned the blaster to the holster hidden beneath his baggy robes, simultaneously disengaging his lightsaber. Behind where the pirate leader had been standing, the hooded Sith noticed a blinking light. Nudging the pirate's corpse out of the way, Asher began studying the vessel's controls. Everything seemed in order, nothing out of the ordinary. The Sith suspected the captain might have attempted to cut him and his group off from the _Fury_, but every display showed the fields connecting them were still raised. In fact, another had been raised on the opposite side of the freighter.

Looking over the nearby terminal, Asher saw a transmission had been recently made. More recently than the communication the Sith had received upon their drop into realspace. Studying the console, the Sith's eyes widened when he saw that a guiding vector had been just been transmitted to a newly arrived ship. One currently making its way toward the freighter with intent to dock. The terminal displayed an electronic model immediately recognizable to the Sith. Light corvette. _Defender_-class. The ship of a Jedi.

"Crap."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter ****Eight**

Pacing about the quiet cargo bay, Fay and Graves occasionally stopped beside a fallen pirate for a closer look.

"Some of them are still breathing," said Graves. "What should we do with them?"

"Killing them doesn't seem worth the effort. Besides, without their captain they don't seem capable of much."

"I suppose we could use anyone who wakes up to spread a message," Graves suggested. "Put the fear of the Empire back into the underworld so something like this doesn't happen again."

As the armored warrior righted his stance, he noticed one of the unconscious bodies sliding across the cold floor, seemingly of its own accord. Looking to Fay, he saw her making subtle movements with her hands. The Kineticist was guiding multiple pirates toward her, eventually leaning them against a nearby crate. Lined up along the solid surface, the unconscious pirates seemed oddly comfortable in their concussed stupor.

As Fay looked upon her work with her arms crossed, she picked up the faint echo of a voice in her ear. Focusing her mind, she turned her head toward the other end of the cargo bay, hearing what sounded like shouting from the corridor beyond, quickly becoming louder with each passing moment.

"Do you hear that?" Fay asked.

"It's Asher, I think," said Graves.

A second later, the hooded Sith stormed into the chamber, nearly stumbling as he tried to stop himself. "We gotta go! Now!"

"You made the ship self-destruct, didn't you?" Graves stoically suggested.

"What? No, I couldn't find the option," Asher muttered. "But we got a bigger problem."

Fay slightly cocked her head to the side. "Did you manage to kill the captain?"

"Of course I did!" Asher shot back. "But we got another ship on the way."

"More pirates?" Graves asked.

"Jedi," Asher plainly stated.

"What?" the others simultaneously replied.

"One of their _Defenders_ dropped into the system," Asher explained. "The captain transmitted the docking procedure before I could catch up to him."

"They don't need someone to actually let them onboard?" asked Fay.

"System's automated," Asher stated. "Didn't want to mess with it and wind up cutting ourselves off from the _Fury_."

"So what do we do?" Graves calmly asked.

"Uh, I think it's obvious. We get the hell out of here," Asher declared. "Mission's done. We can leave."

"No," Fay sternly replied.

"No?" the other two offered with contrasting levels of emotion.

"Suppose we leave, get back on our ship, try and navigate our way out of the debris field..." Fay calmly said. "What's to stop the Jedi from just shooting us down?"

Asher's jaw fell. "Have you seen the _Fury_? Thing's more than capable of-"

"Are any of us pilots?" Fay interrupted. "Do any of us know how to properly engage in a space battle? We can't focus on attacking the enemy and navigating the debris field simultaneously, even with the droid's help."

"So, what, you want to just stay here?" asked Asher. "Just welcome the Jedi with open arms?"

"Yes," Fay bluntly answered, taking a seat on a nearby crate. The other Sith weren't sure how to respond as their compatriot patiently sat, adamant in her position.

"We don't even know who's going to show up," Asher declared. "We don't know how many there's going to be. They could be Knights, they could be Masters, they could be-"

"Whomever they are, there's nothing they can do," Fay stated. "The war is over. We've done nothing wrong. If they want to fight, then so be it. But I'd rather it be here than somewhere I can't fight back."

The burned Sith threw back his hood, running his hands over his bandaged scalp as he paced about the chamber. "Look, you want to stay here, fine! But you can't stop us from leaving."

"You want to test that theory?" Fay sternly asked, almost at a whisper, but nonetheless piercing the recipient's senses. Asher froze as the Kineticist's sharpened gaze fell upon him with its burdening weight. Turning toward Graves, the burned Sith looked for some measure of support.

"Eh. She's right," Graves calmly stated with a shrug of his shoulders. "No point in running."

"There's plenty of points!" Asher shouted alongside the wild flailing of his arms. Bouncing his gaze between the other two Sith, the burned man's stance drooped amidst the others' resoluteness. He shot back up the moment a brief siren filed the freighter's halls.

"I think that means they've docked," said the scarred man.

"Do you? Do you really, Graves?" Asher squealed. Releasing a low grumble, the burned Sith gripped the borders of his hood and raised it, resigning himself to his fate. The three Executors waited, eyes toward the cargo bay entrance they had been led through. Any worthy Jedi would be able to sense their presence and seek them out.

The siren faded as quickly as it had arrived. In an unfamiliar space, under unfamiliar terms, the Sith could do nothing but mentally prepare themselves.

Minutes passed by in dead silence. Fay remained comfortably seated on a crate toward the side of the chamber. Asher took his position leaning against the opposite wall. Graves stood unwaveringly between them, wide open in the center of the cargo bay. Their eyes remained affixed to the corridor beyond the chamber's large, parted doors.

The enduring silence was interrupted by the presence of unseen footsteps. They were soft and numerous, belonging to a group of people light of foot. Stepping into view was a lone figure, garbed in conservative brown robes. He was soon joined by two similarly garbed figures behind him. There was a moment of hesitance in the lead figure's movements as he peered into the occupied chamber, but it was evident he was putting all of his energy into maintaining a calm facade.

Cautiously, the three Jedi passed through the threshold of the cargo bay, stepping into the revealing light.

The middle of the three seemed the eldest, but was still only a few years into adulthood. The Human male possessed an athletic build, but nothing outwardly strong. His youthful visage had been hardened by the trials of the Jedi and the war. His head was absent of hair, clean shaven across both his chin and scalp. A monk, whose mark of distinction was his lack thereof. Leading the other Jedi forward, he maintained his stoicism in the face of the Sith.

The Jedi to his right was the smallest, and youngest of the group. A Human female, aged just beyond her teens. Her face was soft, unburdened by scars or fatigue born from a life of battle. Her light hair was kept short and worn clean, accentuated only by the singular braid that hung behind her ear. The girl's frame was slight, its capabilities hidden beneath her encompassing Padawan's robes.

The Jedi left of the others was the most distinct. Resembling a Human in all aspects but one, a decorative band of cloth covered the male's absent eyes, denoting his species as that of a Miraluka. He too appeared to be just beyond his teenage years, but possessed a more mature visage than his female counterpart, despite his still youthful features. His head was topped with long, dark hair that fell to his shoulders like silk. His frame served as a middle ground between the other two Jedi, standing between them in height and figure.

All three of them possessed a lightsaber clipped to their belt.

The six figures looked to one another, none daring to break the silence, both sides frozen in place. Just as the tension was about to reach a boiling point, Graves made the first move.

"Hello," the armored Sith calmly said alongside the gentle wave of his hand.

The Jedi remained silent, offering only puzzled looks amongst their usual stoicism. Trying to get a hold of the situation, the Jedi noticed the hooded Sith to their left silently rubbing his brow. But more worthy of their attention, was the litany of motionless bodies littering the cargo bay.

"Sith…" the lead Jedi spoke up, his voice deep and utterly calm. "What is your purpose here?"

"I thought that'd be painfully obvious…" Asher mumbled beneath his breath.

"We came to retrieve data stolen from the Empire," Graves calmly explained.

"So you slaughtered the entire crew. Typical," the Miraluka chided.

"Didn't give us much of a choice," Graves replied. "They intended to kill us and steal our ship. There never were any schematics."

"And why should we believe you, Sith?" the Miraluka asked.

Graves remained utterly still, utterly calm. "What reason would we have to lie?"

"Since when do Sith need an excuse to lie?" the Miraluka barked.

"Well, he's got us there," Asher muttered.

"And why are you here, Jedi?" Graves patiently asked.

"We were investigating the sale of weapons schematics," the lead Jedi replied. "Our intent was to keep dangerous information out of dangerous hands."

"Would those be pirate hands or Imperial hands?" asked Asher.

"Doesn't matter, there never were any schematics to begin with," Graves explained. "It was a trick."

The blindfolded Jedi's nostril's flared. "And how do we know this isn't another one?"

"You don't," Fay sternly declared, still atop her crate. "There's nothing that can be done about it now. The pirates are dead. Most of them anyway. There are some survivors over there if you want to wait for them to wake up and give you their side of the story. But challenging us now is pointless."

"Pointless?" the Miraluka barked. "Your kind are a blight on the galaxy. You know nothing but death and destruction. Schematics or not, your continued existence only puts more lives in danger."

"The war is over," Fay said, growing firmer in tone. "You've no reason to fight us."

"There are plenty of reasons!" the Miraluka shouted alongside the wild flailing of his arms.

Asher offered the flippant wave of his hand. "Overly dramatic, isn't he?"

"Enough," the lead Jedi interrupted. "Jaruss, calm yourself. We needn't lose our heads. But I'm afraid he's correct, Sith. Regardless of your actions here, we cannot permit you to leave." The bald Jedi wrapped his hand around the hilt at his waist, unhooking it. "It's obvious you three are a danger to the galaxy."

"How is it obvious?" Asher spoke up as he pushed himself off the wall. As he did, his foot accidentally nudged the severed arm of a fallen pirate, its host unknown and unseen. "Oh."

"You'll be breaking the treaty, you know," Graves calmly stated, not even reaching for his weapon.

"We're in neutral space," the lead Jedi coldly replied. "The treaty has no sway here. Allow me to say we take no delight in this. It is simply for the greater good. Jaruss, take the man on the left. Nami, take the woman on the right. I'll handle the one in the middle."

The Jedi took their first steps toward their foes, drawing their weapons as they did. As Asher and Graves hovered their hands over their sabers, Fay calmly shoved off of the crate she had been patiently sitting atop. The youngest Jedi approached her opponent, her steps slowing as she recognized the Sith's immense stature. The Kineticist stood tall, towering over the young Jedi more than any of the other men, the top of the girl's head barely reaching the bottom of the woman's chest. Fay stood across from the Jedi, arms crossed, eyeing her with a sharpened gaze.

The disparity between the two was instantly recognizable, and in more ways than one. The Jedi was a girl before the woman. A child before the adult. A students before the master. But despite the differences between the two, the young Jedi would not back down.

"Draw your weapon, Sith," said Nami, almost struggling to vocalize, her voice as soft and small as she was.

"Don't have one."

The declaration baffled the young Jedi, but she remained firm in her stance. "Don't… don't think that means I'll take it easy on you."

"Tell me," Fay spoke up, dropping her usual sternness. "Is this what you want?"

"What?" Nami softly muttered.

"Your name's Nami, right? Mine's Fay," the tall woman introduced. "I'm asking if this is what you want. To fight us? To fight me?"

"It's not about what I want. It's about what's right."

"And you think this is right? Trying to kill people you know nothing about?" Fay asked.

"I know enough, Sith. I know you slaughtered these men," Nami replied.

"These _pirates_," Fay emphasized. "They lured people aboard their ship, killed them, then stole whatever vessel they arrived in, likely to pawn it off at the nearest port. They tried the same with us and we defended ourselves. You cannot say the same."

"And what other blood is on your hands? How many did you kill during the Sacking?"

"That was war. This isn't," Fay declared. "If you truly seek vengeance, I will not deny your pursuit. But do not throw your life away at the behest of these men."

The woman's words caught the attention of the eyeless Jedi from across the room. "Vengeance? This is _justice_. Don't listen to her, Nami. She's manipulating you."

"And these men aren't?" Fay asked of the young Jedi. "Did they consult you? Did they ask your thoughts before throwing you into battle?"

"She knows her duty," the lead Jedi interrupted.

"Well, if that's the case," Fay muttered. The Kineticist threw her arms out to her side, causing the young Jedi to flinch. When she gathered her senses, the girl saw the towering Sith remain motionless in front of her, arms extended, defenses lowered. "Go ahead."

Nami looked to her open foe before turning back toward her comrades, silently begging for guidance.

"Do it, Nami," the lead Jedi calmly advised.

"I… I don't…" Nami stuttered. Passing her gaze over the other Sith, she saw that none of them seemed particularly interested in battle. The scarred and burned men hovered their hands near their belts, but neither thought to ignite their sabers. "I can't just kill her."

"She's dangerous, Nami. All of them are," the lead Jedi firmly declared. "Remember Coruscant? Remember the temple? You have to do it."

"You don't have to do anything," Fay stated. The young Jedi froze, legs trembling.

"Damn it, Nami," Jaruss growled, making his way toward the right side of the chamber. With a flick of his wrist, a blue blade of plasma extended from the Miraluka's lightsaber. "If you're too weak to do what needs to be done…"

Jaruss raised his weapon high before bringing it down with a hasty swipe toward the defenseless Sith. Just as the blade was about to make contact, however, it stopped dead in its tracks. The beam of plasma hovered close enough to the tall woman's face to heat the very air she breathed, but it did not budge from its locked position. The young Jedi looked upon the Sith as she basked in the blue glow, unaffected by the halted strike. Her stance unaltered, Fay's arms remained outstretched to her sides, only now, a tightened fist had replaced an open palm.

"Inaction is not weakness," Fay firmly declared, maintaining her invisible control on the Jedi's blade.

"You see, Nami?" Jaruss growled as he tugged at his hilt, unable to move it. "It was a trick. She never dropped her guard."

"You couldn't have known that," said Nami, almost approaching a shout. "And I'm not weak!"

"You're right. You're not," Fay softly stated, face still basking in the blue glow, not a single bead of sweat present. "Not only are you a capable fighter, you possess the strength of free will."

"She's just telling you what you want to hear," Jaruss muttered, still tugging at his saber's hilt.

"I'm telling her what she _needs_ to hear," said Fay before turning her gaze toward the young Jedi. "These people don't want what's best for you... they want to control you..."

Nami's head dipped. "No matter what you say… the Sith are still evil. You kill…"

"People kill. Even Jedi," Fay replied. "A Sith's actions are the actions of an individual. How we use our strength is up to us. My two compatriots and I, we belong to an organization dedicated to bettering the Empire. We are not soldiers. We're not monsters. We're people, doing what we can with what we have."

Lowering her arms, Fay forced back the Miraluka's blade with her mind. Finally regaining control, the Jedi stepped away, trying to maintain his composure.

"You don't understand," Jaruss spoke up, addressing the Sith rather than the young Jedi. "Nami, she's not-"

"That's enough, Jaruss!" shouted the group's leader, dropping his previously calm facade. "Nami, go back to the ship and wait for us there."

The girl's eyed widened. "But I…"

"That's an order, Nami," the lead Jedi barked.

"You're not my master, Leron," said Nami, almost whispering.

"That's because your master is dead," Leron sternly replied. "Killed, by Sith just like these. If you don't want to fight, fine. We'll handle things here."

The young Jedi's head lowered, her eyes focused on her feet. She took only a single step toward the chamber entrance before stopping. After a long pause, she turned on her heels, returning to position herself beside Fay. Shoulder to much shorter shoulder, the women now faced the same direction, opposing the two Jedi.

"No," Nami softly, but firmly, declared.

The two Jedi went pale as they found themselves staring down one of their own. Their attention so focused on the two women, neither noticed Asher awkwardly scratching his head.

"Wait… what the hell just happened?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter ****Nine**

The two male Jedi tensed as they struggled to maintain their composure under the combined gazes of the Sith as well as one of their own.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jaruss muttered through gritted teeth.

"What's right," Nami replied, her voice still soft, but now possessing a confident backing. "I'll not just stand by and let you kill these people."

"Nami… think about what you're doing," Leron calmly, yet firmly, said.

"I am. I _did_," Nami declared. "A Jedi does not seek violence. A Jedi does not needlessly take the life of another. A Jedi does not work against peace."

Leron narrowed his gaze. "A Jedi does what must be done."

"Which is what I'm doing," Nami replied. "I'm not leaving until you do. I'll not let you compromise the name of our Order."

"You're the one standing next to a damned Sith!" Jaruss barked.

"And? I swore to defend all life. I will not break that vow for unjust vengeance," Nami declared.

"Unjust? Have you forgotten everything their kind has done to us? Look at them!" The Miraluka thrust his arm out, directing a pointed finger toward the hooded Sith. "Do innocent people look like that? He probably burned down an orphanage!"

"It wasn't an orphanage…" Asher muttered, keeping his gaze lowered.

"They burned Coruscant to the ground!" Jaruss shouted.

"You can't even imagine the state Coruscant would be in if not for our mercy," said Fay. "The invasion was but a scratch on the surface, and in the end, concluded a war that would have utterly destroyed both of us."

Jaruss offered a sarcastic chortle. "A Sith speaks of mercy? You destroyed our home. Ruined our Order. You've wanted nothing more than the extinction of the Jedi ever since your return."

"And you've sought nothing but ours for past millennia," Fay replied. "You seek not only our defeat, but the annihilation of our history and culture. You want to erase every trace of our existence from the galaxy. If there is an Order of oppressive dogmas, it is yours, not mine."

"That's not true!"

"Oh? Because as far as I recall, my allies and I have shown no hostilities toward your group," Fay stated. "You, however, shoved a lightsaber in my face."

"She's right," Nami softly added. "There's no reason for any of us to fight. No one has to die."

"Do not be taken in by her kindness, Nami," said Leron. "It is a facade that only serves herself. Jaruss, tell her what you truly see in them."

The Miraluka paused, returning his weapon to his belt. Passing his eyeless gaze over the three Sith, the Jedi saw them not through organic means, but through the Force. Focusing his mind, the Miraluka saw the world through an array of colors and flows incomprehensible to the normal senses.

Each individual that stood before him possessed an aura about their frame. Surrounding the young girl, a lambent display of the purest light. The Sith, however, offered more sullied displays. Subtle in their dimensions, none of them possessed a particularly dominating presence. In actuality, each Sith displayed only a soft, murky aura around their disparate figures.

"They're… unclear. It's obvious they're masking their true natures," Jaruss explained.

"We're not hiding anything," said Fay. "This is who we are. No tricks. No lies. We're not perfect, but we're honest. Asher in particular."

"It's true," Asher briefly spoke up, not budging from his position.

"See? There's nothing more for us to do here," Nami said. "We can just go our separate ways."

Jaruss scoffed. "And have them follow us back to our base? No way."

"We don't have a way of tracking you through hyperspace," Fay admitted. "And even if we did, we could leave first if you'd prefer."

"So you can destroy our ship while it's docked?"

"If we wanted to kill you, we'd do it here," Fay coldly stated. "And believe me, we could if we wanted to. But we don't. Not unless you intend to keep us here indefinitely, in which case, we will go through you if we must."

"Just try it, Sith!" Jaruss barked, drawing his blade once more.

"Stop it!" Nami shouted. "We can't win this, Jaruss!"

The Miraluka snapped toward the girl. "We could if one of our own wasn't working against us."

Nami recoiled. "Working against you? I'm trying to save you. You've seen what she's capable of!"

"Hey, we're here too," Asher muttered, arms folded, foot gently tapping against the metallic flooring.

"Our best course of action to just get back on the ship and leave," Nami continued.

"Unfortunately," Leron said, his stoicism bitterly cold, "I'm not sure there's a place for you on that ship anymore."

"What?" Nami whispered, almost at a whimper. "What are you saying, Leron?"

"This isn't the first time your commitment to the Order has been called into question, Nami," Leron declared. "Your former master may have tolerated your eccentricities, but he's not around to protect you anymore."

"I don't… I don't _need_ to be protected…" Nami muttered, eyes shaking as they drifted toward her feet. "I'm just… I'm just doing what's right."

"What's right?" Leron repeated. "You think it's right to interfere with our mission? You think it's right to defend Sith? Master Kyros was doing you a favor by taking you in. And this is how you repay him? I doubt you'll find such hospitality in the arms of the Empire."

The girl's lips began to tremble as her eyes watered. A soft whimper rang out within the otherwise silent chamber as the youngest Jedi struggled to maintain a hold on her emotions. Just as she was about to reach her breaking point, she felt a firm hand planting itself upon her shoulder. Lifting her gaze, she saw the tall woman looking down with what resembled a smile. In the shadow of the towering Sith, the Jedi found an odd sense of comfort.

"If you want a home, we can give you one," Fay whispered. A smile began to stretch across the Jedi's face, even as tears pooled beneath her eyes. The whimpers faded and the girl offered the Sith a soft nod of her head. Fay broke her focus on Nami to look toward the other Jedi. "I'd step aside if I were you. You're outnumbered and outmatched."

Leron and Jaruss remained where they stood, hands balling into fists. Even the stoic monk of the group struggled to maintain his composure. Fay maneuvered herself in front of the girl by her side as the other Sith took a step forward. The three Executors stared down the two Jedi, resolute in their stance, adamant in their presence.

The Jedi were powerless to oppose the combined might of three foes by themselves. With great hesitance, Jaruss lowered his weapon. Without utterly dropping their guard, the two Jedi receded. Slowly, they slinked to the side, never taking their eyes off the Sith.

Looking back to the young girl, Fay warmly beckoned her to follow. The girl turned to face the retreating Jedi, who offered only their cold stares in return. Without another moment of hesitation, Nami took her first step, following the towering Sith toward the cargo bay's entrance. As the two women approached the connecting corridor, the other two Sith calmly made their way out of the chamber. Just before passing beyond the threshold, Asher paused, turned toward the stilled Jedi and offered an aggressive juke of his chest toward them before continuing toward the ship.

As the Sith disappeared from view with their former comrade in tow, the Jedi remained silent and still, unsure of how to proceed.

The _Fury_ still docked outside the freighter, the four men and women carefully made their way back onboard the parked vessel. Finding the manual controls for the exterior hatches, the Sith bridged the almost weightless gap between the two ships, joined by the young Jedi. As a group, the four figures made their way to the _Fury_'s cockpit. Passing through the connecting corridors and rooms, Nami looked upon her surroundings with wide eyes, in awe of the Imperial ship's interior.

Stepping into the cockpit, the group was greeted by the ship's ever pleasant droid attendant.

"Welcome back, masters. I assume your mission went well," ALD warmly stated. The mechanical being's head turned toward the unfamiliar face gracing the cockpit. "I see you've brought a guest onboard."

"She's a friend," Fay declared. Looking toward the Jedi, the tall woman saw her shying away near the chamber's entrance, focus drifting toward the floor. "Go ahead and set a course for home."

"At once, master," ALD replied, spinning around in his chair to manipulate the ship's controls. Graves took his seat in the central chair in front of the main console as the vessel prepared to pull away from the freighter. The sounds of the ship's engines filled the occupants' ears as the surrounding terminals displayed an array of flashing lights.

Watching everything come to life around her, Nami's breaths grew more and more rapid as her eyes darted around the cockpit. Eventually, as the ship trembled, she did as well. "Oh no," the young Jedi muttered. "What have I done? This isn't right. This isn't-"

She was interrupted as she felt the familiar presence of a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry," Fay assuaged. "It'll be alright. I promise."

"I can't… I can't just become an Imperial," Nami whimpered.

"You know, she might be right," Asher bluntly said as he took the remaining seat in front of the ship's main console. "I mean, I don't know if we can just show up on-"

"It'll be fine," Fay quickly replied. "We're Logistics after all. We'll just talk to Syrosk. See about making her an Executor."

"A what?" Nami mumbled.

"That's what we are. Executors," Fay explained. "Force-sensitives serving the public good outside the typical Sith hierarchical system. It'd be a great place for you."

"You think so?"

"Like I said, we're not perfect. But we can give you a home," said Fay.

"She's a Force-user," Asher reminded. "I think defectors still have to be put through one of the Academies."

Fay paused. "I'm sure Syrosk can-"

"That's okay," Nami said, brimming with a subtle confidence. "I've already passed most of my Jedi trials. I can handle more training."

"Girl, this isn't normal training," Asher bluntly stated. "The Academy's about survival. It's supposed to weed out the weak from the strong."

"You're not weak, are you, Nami?" Fay warmly suggested. The young Jedi emphatically shook her head. "She'll do fine."

"If you say so," Asher muttered.

As the vessel carefully navigated the debris field surrounding the freighter, it prepped itself for a jump to hyperspace. Putting the final piece of scrapped metal behind it, the _Fury_ pointed itself toward its proper bearing. ALD engaged the hyperdrive and the stars beyond the viewport began to stretch. Soon, the interceptor was traveling faster than the speed of light, surrounded by the swirling tunnel of hyperspace, heading toward Dromund Kaas.

As the cockpit stewed in silence, the towering woman noticed the girl at her side almost shriveling, keeping her arms firmly at her sides.

"You should probably get to know the others," Fay calmly suggested. "Nami, this is Asher and Graves." The two Sith offered respective waves of their hands as they kept their attention focused forward. "And I'm Fay."

"It's… nice to meet you all," Nami hesitantly stated, trying to keep a straight face.

"Don't be put off by their appearance," Fay assuaged. "They're not that bad when you get to know them. Asher's annoying, but he's capable when the time calls for it. All in all, we make a fairly good team."

"How long have you known each other?" asked Nami.

"Two… maybe three days," Asher casually stated.

"Well, Asher and I knew each other back in the Academy, but we went our separate ways before meeting up again" Graves added.

"Not before he burnt most of my upper body off."

"Not before he cut off my left arm."

The young Jedi was puzzled by the lack of emotion behind the two Sith's words. "And you two work together?"

"No point dwelling on the past," Graves calmly stated. "And it helps that Asher thinks he looks cooler like this than he did before."

"And it helps that Graves can't feel pain," said Asher.

The young Jedi's eyes went wide with interest. "Is that some sort of Force technique?"

"No," Graves plainly answered. "Ever heard of Kinson's Disorder?"

"Um… no," Nami replied.

"Not surprising," Graves admitted. "Doesn't exist outside of Imperial space. It's a rare genetic defect that affects Humans with small amounts of Sith blood in their ancestry."

"Really? You have Kinson's?" Asher offered, genuinely surprised. "Didn't know it could turn you completely numb."

"It typically doesn't," Graves admitted.

The hesitance in the girl's visage was all but washed away, replaced with a budding curiosity. "What does it do?"

"It affects the nervous system," Graves explained. "In light cases, all it causes is an increase in pain tolerance, actually making it a desirable trait amongst military families. In moderate cases, however, it can lead to early blindness, deafness, and an overall dulling of the senses. Extreme cases cause someone to slowly lose control of their bodies until they completely shut down. Those cases don't survive past infancy."

"So which are you?" Nami softly asked.

"Don't know," Graves admitted. "Lost all feeling by the time I could speak. Shouldn't be able to move. Certainly shouldn't be able to use cybernetics. And yet I can."

"How do you explain that?" asked Nami.

The armored Sith offered a gentle shrug. "The Force?"

"It's explained weirder things," Asher admitted. "What's really odd is the fact that, despite not being able to feel pain, he's probably the most traditional Sith out of the three of us."

Nami's head slightly tilted. "How do you mean?"

"Well, I'm what you call a combat pragmatist," Asher revealed, taking delight in his own designation. "And Fay doesn't even use a lightsaber."

"Really?" Nami stared at the tall woman in awe. "Like… never?"

"The Force is the only weapon I need," Fay emphatically declared.

"And thighs that could crush a man's skull," Asher muttered. The tall Sith cast her sharpened gaze toward her hooded companion. Rather than endure the stare, the burned man spun around in his chair, pointing himself back toward the forward viewport.

The four men and women continued to converse whilst the vessel journeyed through hyperspace. With the passage of time, the young Jedi felt more and more at ease amongst the odd Sith she found herself with. Everything that had been instilled into her by the Jedi was being slowly unproven. Fay had shown her a kindness she'd not experienced since her master's passing. Since the war's end, she felt isolated. Cohesion and unity were a distant memory. Her fellow Jedi had grown cold. But in the strangest of places, amongst the strangest of fellows, she felt warmth for the first time in months.

After hours of travel, the tunnel surrounding the vessel collapsed as the Sith dropped back into realspace. Sitting beyond the _Fury_'s viewport was Dromund Kaas, the chaotic orb of storms and darkness. Whilst the droid handled the ensuing approach, silently communicating with the starport planetside, the ship's passengers readied themselves for the landing.

Asher and Graves lifted themselves from their seats and the four of them made their way into the comm room. As the vessel passed through the atmosphere, the four men and women stood in a tight circle nearer the ship's exit.

"I know it may sound strange coming from me, but I suggest we proceed with caution," Asher calmly stated.

"Don't suppose any of us know the proper procedure for this kind of thing?" asked Graves.

"You mean spontaneously bringing a Jedi into the heart of the Empire? No. No I don't," Asher snarked.

"I…" a soft voice rang out beneath the Sith's notice.

"We're Sith operating under a Dark Councilor," Fay stated. "I think we'll be fine."

"No, we're Executors who belong to a fledgling organization run by an alien Sith Lord turned bureaucrat," Asher corrected.

"I don't…" the soft voice rang out again.

"Hey, you wanted to test whether Syrosk and Vowrawn really wanted us in their group," Fay declared. "Now we'll know for sure."

"They wanted us because they think we have potential," Asher replied. "That doesn't extend to Jedi we happen to bring in, on our first ever mission I might add."

"I don't feel…" the soft voice struggled to speak. Before the Sith could continue their heated discussion, they were interrupted by the sound of a loud thud. Turning around, the Executors saw the young girl had collapsed.

"Nami!" Fay shouted, taking a knee beside the stilled body. Carefully placing a hand behind the Jedi's head, she raised her partially upright for a closer examination. "She's unconscious."

"Ah. Should have seen this coming," Asher admitted, scratching his wrapped chin.

"What are you talking about?" Fay asked, momentarily tearing her gaze away from the girl.

"Dromund Kaas is pretty seeped in the dark side of the Force," Asher explained. "People not accustomed to it are subject to weakness or sickness. So for someone like a Jedi…"

"Who's likely heavily attuned to the light…" Graves spoke up.

"Precisely," said Asher. "Boom. Unconscious."

Fay carefully wrapped her hands around the fallen Jedi, picking up her entire weight with ease. Gently, she guided he stilled body over to one of the couches populating the communications room. Just as she did, the vessel offered a sturdy shake as it rested upon its struts.

Graves panned his gaze about the chamber. "We've landed."

"If we want, we can contact Syrosk," Asher suggested. "This just might qualify as an emergency."

Placing her head near the Jedi's chest, Fay focused her mind. "Her heartbeat's normal. So is her breathing. Seems like she's just exhausted."

"So what do you want to do with her?" Asher asked. "We can't drag her through Kaas City. At least, not with those robes on."

"You're right," Fay plainly stated. "Give me your coat."

"What?"

"We'll take her to Syrosk, maybe he can help," said Fay. "But for now, it's best she doesn't look like a Jedi."

Asher tightly folded his arms. "One piece of cloth isn't going to fix that."

"It'll help," Fay declared. "Coat. Now."

"Fine," Asher offered with a huff. Unsinching the belt around his waist, the hooded Sith soon wasn't as he slipped his arms through the outermost piece of clothing covering his torso. Removing the hooded robe, the other Sith looked to the wrapped Sith in amazement.

"Wow," Graves muttered. Beneath his outer robe, Asher had a hidden array of devices strapped across his torso by various belts and bandoliers. Beneath his right shoulder rest a compact pistol resting within a holster. Across his left breast, a row of ampoules lay strapped to a bandolier. At his side, a single metallic orb was attached. "Is that a grenade?"

"Yeah," Asher plainly answered as he handed his coat to Fay. The tall woman went to work removing the bulky brown robe that made up the Padawan's outer layer.

"When did you get a grenade?" Graves asked.

"Back during the war," Asher replied. "Why?"

"It just seems an odd thing for a Sith to have," Graves stated.

"Sometimes you need more than a Force-assisted fireball. When that time comes, I'll be prepared."

"Did someone give it to you, or…"

"Took it from an outpost I was stationed in," Asher replied.

"Took it?" Graves repeated. "Like, _took it_, took it?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I just don't think the soldiers would appreciate you stealing their supplies," said Graves.

"Oh, if only we had _fifty_ grenades instead of _forty-nine_ we would have won that battle," Asher offered with a mock despair. The two men were interrupted by a low sigh emanating from their female partner.

"You're right, I don't think this'll work," Fay declared, handing back the coat.

Asher snatched the piece of cloth, slipping his arms back through the sleeves. "Told you. We should probably just leave her here for now. The ship has a bedroom. Go tuck her in there until we return to base. Lock this place down, make sure she can't-"

"That's it!" Almost with epiphany, the woman jumped to her feet and made her way toward the _Fury_'s primary bedroom. The other Sith merely offered confused stares as heard the faint sound of rustling fibers past the threshold of the chamber.

* * *

The entrance ramp of the Sith interceptor descended and Asher and Graves cautiously made their way down, scanning the surrounding hangar as they did so. With the area clear, they waved for Fay to follow. Stepping down the ramp, the towering woman held the Jedi's unconscious body over her shoulder, the young girl wrapped head to toe in a black bedsheet.

As Fay made her way down and toward the hangar's exit, utterly unburdened by the weight upon her shoulders, Asher could only rub his brow in frustration.

"This is such a stupid idea…"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"This was such a stupid idea…" Syrosk rasped with his head hung low, furiously rubbing his brow.

The elder Executor stood in his personal quarters, joined by his new charges as well as the unconscious Jedi. The young girl sat limp in a chair, still wrapped below the neck in a black bedsheet whilst the four Sith hovered around her.

"What were you thinking? Bringing a Jedi here…" Syrosk growled, struggling to keep his emotions contained. "Do you have any idea the trouble this could cause? For you? For me?"

"I take it this would be a bad time to discuss renovations for the ship?" Asher asked, the gravity his superior possessed utterly absent from his voice.

"Yes, it would very much be a bad time," Syrosk replied. "What part of your mission entailed taking a Jedi prisoner?"

"She's not a prisoner," Fay plainly stated. "She wanted to join us."

Syrosk snapped toward the tall woman. "And she's unconscious because?"

"She passed out when we touched down," Graves explained. "Kaas probably overwhelmed her."

A low grumble slipped past the alien's lips. "Never should have brought her here. Why didn't you contact me before bringing her planetside?"

"You said the comm was only for emergencies," said Fay.

"You wouldn't consider this an emergency?" Syrosk replied, raising his voice to a level previously unheard of by the younger Sith.

"See? Told you," Asher whispered.

The elder Executor narrowed his already sharpened gaze toward the burned Sith. "You're all equally responsible for this!"

"Did I give the impression I wasn't taking responsibility?" Fay bluntly asked alongside the arch of her brow. "She wanted to defect, so I brought her here. I thought if anyone could help her, it'd be you."

"Even if I could, you don't just smuggle an outsider onto the Empire's capital!" Syrosk declared. "And you definitely don't walk a Jedi through the streets of Kaas City!"

"We wrapped her in a bedsheet, what more do you want from us?" Asher muttered.

"You honestly think no one saw you?" asked Syrosk. "What would you have said if someone stopped you?"

"We were 'escorting' our friend, a newly promoted Sith Lord, home after a night of 'celebration' at the local cantina," Fay calmly explained. The alien continued to rub his brow as he released another wordless grunt beneath his breath.

"If it makes you feel any better, the mission itself went pretty well," Graves spoke up. "Confirmed the lack of schematics and took out the pirates."

"The mission… was to be a test of cohesion," Syrosk stated, slowly regaining his composure. "With your skills, it was never a question of whether you'd succeed, but whether you were capable of cooperating."

"Considering we came back with an extra teammate, I'd say we're the best at cooperating," Asher bragged.

"An extra teammate? Is that what you think will happen?" Syrosk asked, suitably baffled.

"You recruit Executors, right? Well, she's a recruit," said Fay. "I don't see the problem, Jedi have defected before."

"They are put through the proper channels first," Syrosk replied. "Given oversight. Made sure they're not spies or infiltrators."

"The Dark Councilor for Logistics is your friend. I assumed you were the proper channel," Fay admitted.

"He's not my friend, he's my boss," Syrosk clarified, forcing an extra helping of grit into his words. "I hope that does not change after all this."

"Look, this was the best course of action," Fay firmly stated. "She boarded the pirates' freighter with two other Jedi. We could have killed them all, maybe causing an international incident in the process. Or we could have brought one of them over to our side."

"And these other Jedi, what became of them?" asked Syrosk.

"They're still alive," Graves quickly replied.

"And they just let you take one of their own?"

"Well, there wasn't much they could do about it," said Asher, brimming with confidence. "We could have beaten them even if they weren't down a member. "

Syrosk's eyes almost glazed over. "So you met a group of Jedi and, over the course of a single conversation, convinced one of them to abandon her home, to leave her entire life behind, to become a Sith?"

"From the way the others talked to her, it didn't seem like she had much of a home amongst the Jedi," Fay explained.

"I believe the word 'eccentricities' was used," Asher added.

"I promised her a new home," Fay continued. "She accepted. She knows what's expected of her."

"Does she?" asked Syrosk. "Inquisitors are going to want every scrap of information she possesses."

"Why? The war is over," Graves replied.

"For some, it'll never be over," said Syrosk. "If she knows something, others will want to know as well."

"What are they going to ask her, the location of the Jedi's nonexistent home?" Asher snarked.

"She's a Padawan, I doubt she knows any secrets," Fay stated.

Syrosk released a raspy sigh. "That's not for me to decide."

"Isn't it? You're in charge here after all," said Fay.

"What would you have me do?" asked Syrosk.

"Maybe take her as an apprentice."

"Assuming she survived the Academy, I still couldn't," Syrosk stated. "I already have three Sith that require all of my time and effort, if you haven't quite yet noticed."

Fay shrugged. "Then let her join our group. Make her Executor Six or whatever."

"You three were put together for a reason," Syrosk replied. "I cannot willingly change your group's dynamic."

"And what if I were to quit? Would _that_ change our dynamic?" Fay asked, a tangible bite to her delivery.

Syrosk visibly recoiled. "And you'd be willing to do that for some Jedi you've just met?"

"I was willing to fight alongside Sith I'd just met," Fay stated. "Don't see why not."

"Why? What do you find so special about this girl?" Syrosk asked.

"I've spent most of my life surrounded by zealots, of both the Jedi and Sith variety, and it's grown somewhat tiresome," Fay declared. "You, you seem alright. These two guys, they seem alright. But let's face it, we're in the minority. If there's someone fit for this group, it's her. She's strong. She belongs with us."

Syrosk drew and released a deep breath before turning his horned head toward the other two Sith. "And you think this as well?"

"Well…" Asher muttered, scratching the back of his head.

"Sure," Graves plainly said. "Better she be with us than back with the Republic. And she seems capable enough."

"You call that capable?" Asher asked, jutting his thumb toward the slumped Jedi.

"She'll get used to Kaas eventually," Fay stated.

The burned Sith released a sigh. "Then… I don't know… I guess? Allies we can trust aren't exactly abundant."

"Can we trust her though?" asked Syrosk. "How do we know this isn't a trick?"

Asher leaned in close to the young Jedi's unmoving body. "That's a pretty good trick."

"We can trust her," Fay declared, utterly confident.

"You'll understand if I don't take you at your word," Syrosk muttered, moving himself closer to the unconscious Jedi. Gripping the young girl's chin with his rough hand, the alien began softly rotating her head back and forth as he cast his discerning gaze upon her soft face. Carefully, he straightened her posture in the seat as well as he could, before holding his hands to either side of the Jedi's head.

"What are you doing?" asked Fay.

"Taking a look at her thoughts," Syrosk replied, maintaining his focus on the girl. "Someone's going to have to dig through her mind, might as well be the one telepath in the Empire with an ounce of finesse."

Fay bounced her gaze between her superior and the unconscious Jedi. "This won't hurt her, will it?"

"Not if I can help it."

"So, this means we're helping her?" Fay asked.

Syrosk released a low sigh. "I can see about getting her into one of the Academies. Beyond that, there's not much else I can do. But before I do anything, I'm going to make sure she's not a threat to us. Now, if you would please give me some space… and some silence."

The other Sith complied, taking a few steps back. Within the compact chamber of the alien's home, Asher, Fay, and Graves pressed themselves against the nearby walls as their boss calmed himself and closed his eyes. Under the younger Sith's gazes, the two figures appeared frozen, neither acting in the slightest. Not even through the Force could much be gleaned from the exchange. Everything that was occurring was known to Syrosk and Syrosk alone.

"This… this can't be right," Syrosk muttered, maintaining his hold on the girl's head.

"What is it?" Fay spoke up.

"Never in my life have I seen such a guarded mind," Syrosk admitted.

"You seen many Jedi's?" Asher asked. "Maybe theirs work differently from ours."

"Any mind can be defended from intrusions, but something like this would require decades of training and a conscious effort to maintain," Syrosk explained.

"Maybe she's just naturally gifted," Graves suggested.

The room seemed frozen in a moment of time. The five figures were stilled, three closely observing the unfolding scene, two sharing a mental and physical link. As Syrosk failed to even scratch the surface of the Jedi's mind, he did not notice the young girl's eyes shooting open.

In an instant, the robed alien found himself flung back, crashing into the nearby wall with tremendous force. The entire chamber shook as a wave of kinetic energy washed over the occupants, upsetting the other Sith's stalwart balance. The young Jedi's hands tightly gripped the arms of her chair as she hastily scanned the room.

Across from the Jedi, Syrosk lay slumped at the bottom of the wall. Beside him, Asher struggled to regain a proper footing. "What the hell was-"

Before he could finish his thought, the Jedi had pushed herself up and out of the chair, flinging off the black bedsheet whilst simultaneously flinging herself across the chamber. Ending the hooded Sith's sentence was the young girl's balled fist slamming itself into Asher's nose. The burned Sith stumbled backward, clutching at his injury as blood began to pour from his nostrils. Graves was closest to the Jedi, but before he could even react, she was on the move. Darting for the door, she had almost made her escape when the towering woman interceded. Maneuvering behind the fleeing Jedi, Fay reached out and wrapped her arms around the young girl's shoulders. In an instant, the tall woman lifted the girl's insignificant weight, halting her escape. The Jedi's legs lashed out and kicked as they dangled, but Fay maintained her grip, trapping the girl between her arms and chest.

The young girl struggled to break free, but had no hope of surpassing her captor's strength. Wriggling and writhing, the girl began to release disoriented screams and shouts.

"What is this?" the Jedi barked. "Where am I? Who are you people?"

The young girl continued to offer nondescript growls and grunts as the others picked themselves off the floor.

The alien patted himself down as a snarl crept across his face. "Not a threat, you say?"

"Maybe Kaas had a bigger effect on her than we thought," said Graves, still utterly calm.

"This wasn't Kaas' doing," Syrosk declared.

"Then what was it?" asked Asher, voice sniveling and nasally as he gripped his injured nose.

"Let me go!" the Jedi shouted. "You're Sith, aren't you? Don't think you can keep me here!"

"Calm down," said Fay, still maintaining her grip. "You wanted to be here. We're trying to help you."

"Like a Sith would ever help anyone!" the Jedi barked.

"Well, she's obviously lost her mind," said Asher, the bandages wrapping his face stained with a red flow. "She was much nicer aboard the freighter."

Arms still clamped around the Jedi, Fay shot a harsh glare toward her boss. "What did you do, Syrosk?"

"This wasn't my doing either," Syrosk rasped.

"She's like a completely different person," said Graves.

Reaffirming her grip, Fay tilted her head as the young girl continued trying to break free. "What's your name, Jedi?"

"Mina," the Jedi shouted.

Maintaining her hold with one arm, the Kineticist pulled the other one away, balling its hand into a fist. Fay delivered a quick knock to the side of the girl's head and her thrashing came to an abrupt end. Holding the once-more unconscious body of the Jedi, the other Sith looked to one another with confused stares.

Asher, Fay, and Graves shared quick glances, each unsure of what to say or do.

* * *

Deep within the heart of Republic space, floating weightlessly upon the astral sea, was the _Enduring Light_. A _Valor_-class cruiser, the large capital ship was surrounded by an array of support vessels and currently served as one of the interim homes for the Jedi Order. Without a temple or world to call their own, the fragmented group was forced to adopt temporary shelter even months after the war's end.

Within the grand corridors and chambers of the capital ship, the Jedi onboard struggled to replicate their lost temple. Masters trained and instructed their students surrounded by the sterile white environment of the military vessel, forced to live out of the various hangars and barracks. Though the galaxy was at peace, the Jedi were not. The Order was not of one mind, countless mentalities plaguing the Jedi in the months following the war's end. Some thought accepting the treaty a necessary evil, others opposed its stringent concessions. With many of their best and brightest lost to the Sith Empire, the Order's voice was scattered. There was little to guide them in their darkest hour, but all they could hope to do was persist.

Gathered in one of the capital ship's mess halls, a number of figures garbed in conservative robes were receiving their day's ration of food. Sitting across from each other at a folding table, two elder Jedi conversed amidst the soft rabble of their congregating fellows.

"Not much to these meals," one of the men muttered with a low drawl. The Jedi was wrinkled and bald of head, a Human in his later years. Staring at his food with heavy eyes, he offered the occasional prod and poke with his utensil.

"Food is food, Verdon," the other plainly replied. The other Human's head was topped with short, graying hair, and though he was aged, he still had a few decades before matching the man across from him. The roughness worn on his face was born from battle rather than an excess of wrinkles.

"Direct as always, Kyros," Verdon offered with a chortle.

"Someone around here has to be," Kyros replied. "People are far too content to sit around and do nothing. If only the war hadn't taken Master Joren from us."

"There's little we can do without a proper home," Verdon stated. "Be patient. Master Shan will come through. She has the Force guiding her."

"Meanwhile, the rest of us go without guidance," Kyros declared.

"We are never without guidance, Kyros. Whether we realize it or not."

"I don't know about you, but the Force has been frightfully silent in our time of need. It doesn't tell us where to go or what to do. Those decisions fall to us, but apparently we lack the resolve to make said decisions."

"In due time," Verdon calmly added. "Answers will come. We just need to be patient."

"Patience does not necessitate inaction," Kyros muttered. Interrupting the pair's conversation was a muffled electronic ringing beneath the younger Jedi's robes. Reaching beneath his coat, Kyros returned with a small holocommunicator in his hand. The silver device flashed and the grainy image of two men appeared. "Leron. Jaruss. How goes your investigation?"

"Master, I'm afraid we have grave news," Leron said, a forced calmness in his voice.

"What's the matter?" Kyros asked, possessing a stoicism far beyond that of the Padawan. "Where is Nami?"

Leron dipped his head. "That's the thing, master. I'm afraid we lost her."

"She's dead?" asked Kyros, maintaining his calm.

"No. When we arrived, the pirates were already dead at the hands of Sith. We tried to block their escape but… the Sith manipulated her, turned her against us," Leron explained.

"We tried to stop her, master," Jaruss added. "We did everything in our power to convince her not to go, but the Sith's hold was too great. We couldn't risk hurting her, and with her condition…"

"I understand, my students," Kyros stated. "You did as much as could be expected of you. Are you two safe, at least?"

"Yes, sir," Leron replied. "We're on our way back now."

"Very well. We can discuss our options when you return." The two Jedi on the other end of the device offered the dutiful bows of their heads and the communications ceased. As the holographic images faded, Kyros released a low sigh as he returned the communicator to his robes.

"You don't seem that upset," said Verdon.

"Any loss to the Sith is regrettable, but this one could have been avoided," Kyros bluntly stated.

"We cannot foresee, nor prevent, every loss."

"We could have prevented this one," Kyros declared. "She never should have been let into the Order to begin with. She was a danger to herself and those around her. Only her master was capable of keeping her in check, and without him, she's unstable. Never should have agreed to pick up her training."

"I know I said we're never without guidance, but that doesn't mean we can just discard Padawans that don't turn out perfect," Verdon scolded.

"You don't know this girl, Verdon. Some people are lost causes," Kyros declared. "But it matters not. She's not our problem anymore."

The elder Jedi was taken aback, stewing in silence as the younger man lifted himself from his seat. Kyros straightened out his thick robes, leaving Verdon alone without a second glance. As he left without another word, the tail of his heavy coat bounced along each step, the long hilt of his double-bladed lightsaber dangling from his belt.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

The Sith were left standing in a dumbfounded circle, silence overtaking the chamber as Fay still held the unconscious Jedi in her arms. None willing to speak, the only sound filling the room was its owner's labored breathing. As Syrosk cast his deadened stare upon the young girl, it became obvious that the blow she had stricken him with had taken its toll. As did the one delivered to the burned Sith, who still covered his leaking nose with his wrapped hand.

"Someone want to explain what just happened?" Asher nasally barked, words muffled by his hand.

"For once, our thoughts align," Syrosk rasped.

"You heard what she called herself, right?" Fay asked her compatriots.

The alien arched his brow. "What significance is that?"

"She used a different name," Fay explained. "When we met her, she said her name was Nami."

"So… different name, different disposition, different personality," Graves stated. "But why?"

"If it wasn't Kaas, and it wasn't Syrosk..." Asher muttered.

"We can't rule either of those out," Fay firmly stated.

"Yes, we can," Syrosk replied. "I know madness. This was no madness."

"She just up and attacks us, forgets who we are or why she's here, and you don't think that's madness?" Asher barked, words still muffled by his now blood-soaked palm.

Syrosk turned toward the tall woman still holding the unconscious Jedi. "You're telling me she showed no signs of such behavior prior to arriving here?"

"She was calm, soft spoken, diplomatic," said Fay. "She trusted us."

The alien released a low hum, somewhere between a curious grunt and a tired growl. The elder Executor scratched his leathery chin as he took a closer look at the unconscious girl. "I'll need to take another look into her mind."

"Because that worked out so well for us last time," Asher snarked.

"This time I'll know what to expect," Syrosk replied. "Bring the girl and follow me." Not a second after his direction, the Sith turned on his heels and started walking deeper into his residence. Pausing before passing into the next chamber, the alien looked back to see an unmoving Fay. "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not going to let you root around in her brain," Fay declared. "It's obvious you did something and she responded."

"All I did was flip a switch," Syrosk explained. "Whatever the cause of this… it existed long before she arrived on Kaas. As fortified as her mind was, I'm starting to believe it wasn't to keep others out… but keep something in."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Asher blurted out, waving his free, non-blood-soaked hand.

"We won't know until I take another look," said Syrosk. "Now come. Let us get this sorted before she wakes up. Because next time, you might not catch her… and if she makes it out that door, she's as good as dead."

Fay conceded to the unrelenting Executor, shifting the girl's weight in her arms. Reaffirming her grip, she carried the young Jedi's limp body deeper into the alien Sith's home. Beyond the simplistic foyer they had stood in prior, the group found themselves in a room of function. It possessed the same dark colors and facets as the rest of the Citadel that had preceded it, but catching the guests' eyes were the terminals and cabinets lining the walls. A quaint repository for Sith knowledge and possessions.

But tucked away in the corner, rather than a chair, was an angled slab. The metallic fixture possessed a roughly humanoid shaping, as well as electronic restraints where an occupant's wrists would rest.

Syrosk gestured toward the slab. "Place her here."

"Should we be concerned that you have something like this in your home?" Asher said through his injured nose.

"This place was repurposed upon my becoming an Executor," Syrosk explained. "Prior to becoming my residence, it belonged to an Inquisitor."

"Was it a place of business, or...?" Asher trailed off, receiving no response from his fellows. Brushing past him, Fay carried over the unconscious girl and placed her upon the slab as gently as she could. The young Jedi's small frame seemed even smaller upon the cold, oppressive fixture.

"Put her wrists in position," said Syrosk as he made his way toward the nearest terminal.

Fay crossed her arms, shooting the alien a tired look. "Is that really necessary?"

"Do it."

The tall woman released a quick sigh before complying, gently maneuvering the girl's wrists into position. Hovering them over the 'arms' of the slab, the elder Executor punched a command into the terminal. A moment later, bands of energy wrapped around the Jedi's forearms, locking them in place.

Fay took a step back, joining her fellows as they watched Syrosk scurry about the chamber with his uneven, yet surprisingly quick, pace. The alien circled around the restrained girl, examining her without getting too close. The three younger Sith stood shoulder to shoulder, casual observers to what was about to occur. Just as Syrosk reached out with his rough, leathery hand, Asher took another step back. Fay and Graves turned toward their skittish companion, casting the arch of their brows.

"What? I don't need her screwing up my face a second time."

"I thought she already screwed up your face for the second time," Graves said in his usual deadpan manner. Asher offered a brief, sarcastic laugh as he continued to clutch his nose.

"Quit being a baby," Fay chided.

"Easy for you to say, you didn't get punched in the nose."

"That's because I wouldn't let myself get punched in the nose."

"Well, that's because I doubt her fist could even reach your face all the way up there," Asher muttered as he gently prodded his nose. "Can't even heal the thing until I get it set-"

The burned Sith was interrupted by Fay batting his hand away. He could only watch with wide eyes as the towering woman pressed her thumbs against his injured nose. With a quick application of strength and the Force, the woman straightened and cleared out the wrapped Sith's nasal passages, prompting him to release a harsh yelp. Removing her hands, Fay watched Asher contort his face before raising his wrapped finger to soak whatever poured from his nose.

"Better?" asked Fay, more stern than concerned.

There was a pause.

"A bit," Asher admitted.

"Any progress, Syrosk?" Graves asked, still focused on the elder Executor. The others turned to see the alien clutching at the girl's temples with his eyes closed, locked in the same trance he had been in prior.

"Only skimming the surface," Syrosk replied. "The barriers in her mind seem more like partitions. I can't go deeper without upsetting her mental state."

"I'd say her mental state is already pretty upset," Asher snarked.

"As rigid as her thoughts appear, they also seem to be shifting of their own accord. Unconsciously moving toward some natural state," Syrosk explained.

"Then maybe the next time she wakes up, she'll be normal again," said Fay.

"Normal…" Syrosk dwelt upon the word. "Normal may be beyond her reach. This girl seems to possess two identities, each with their own personality and memories. Distinct, with no overlap. One always in control."

"Is that… natural?" asked Graves.

"The mind is a curious thing," Syrosk rasped. "Easy to break, hard to mend, and harder still to comprehend."

Asher's head dipped. "So, what, she's actually two people?"

"Depends on how you define a person," Syrosk replied. "The girl possesses one mind, it's just comprised of two self-sustained halves."

"What could cause that?" Graves asked.

"I'm not sure," Syrosk admitted. "Perhaps a childhood trauma caused her create one of the personalities as a defense mechanism."

"Well, the one we just saw was pretty damn defensive," Asher muttered.

"Would that mean Nami's the original identity?" asked Graves.

"It's unclear," Syrosk rasped. "Both identities seem to exist in equal parts, one had simply been suppressed. It's likely the Jedi saw her condition as a corruption to be healed through the Force. When they were unable, they instead locked away one of the personalities as a means to 'fix' her."

"Gotta love that Jedi wisdom," said Asher.

"Then again, we don't know anything for sure," Syrosk admitted, backing away from the unconscious girl.

"Then we wait for her to wake up," Fay suggested. "That's the only way we'll get answers."

"If she has any answers to give," Syrosk rasped.

"She will," said Fay, utterly confident. "Just wait."

"And how do we even know who we're getting when she does wake up?" Asher asked.

"We don't," Syrosk declared.

The four Sith fell silent as they each cast their gaze upon the slumbering Jedi. Unconscious, the young girl's unassuming figure spoke nothing of the mysteries hidden within. On the outside, she appeared to be nothing more than a normal Padawan in traditional garb. Unburdened. Without scars. Soft faced and still holding onto her youth. But it was becoming abundantly clear that there was something more to her.

And so they waited. Time slowed to a crawl as the group did nothing but watch the secured Jedi, unwilling to be caught off guard again. It was a brutal, agonizing wait, but the minutes eventually passed, one by one, each bringing the Sith closer to the point of awakening.

Suddenly, just as time was about to lose all meaning, a soft grumble passed through the young Jedi's lips. The Sith immediately shot to attention, stepping forward and surrounding the restrained girl. Her head sluggishly turned upon the metallic slab before her eyes fluttered open. All she could see was four shadowed figures hovering over her.

As she quickly regained control of her senses, the young girl struggled to get a full grasp on her surroundings.

"Where…" the Jedi mumbled as she shifted upon the slab. Just as she attempted to move, she realized that she couldn't, her wrists firmly locked down with bands of energy. "What? What is this? Where am I?"

The girl's breathing hastened as she tried to wriggle free. The first clear figure she could lay eyes upon was that of the horned alien, casting his cold glare upon her. A soft squeal slipped past her lips as she shrunk with nowhere to go.

"Fay? Fay?" the girl called out, soft but with an increasing panic.

"She's back to normal, turn off the cuffs," Fay called out. The alien heard her, but remained right where he stood.

"What's your name?" Syrosk coldly rasped. The Jedi remained silent, shying away upon the slab. Fay quickly took a step closer, making sure her face was illuminated by the room's lighting.

"It's okay," Fay assuaged. "Just tell him your name."

"N…Nami," the young girl eventually said, almost at whisper. The tall woman immediately shot her determined gaze back toward her boss. Syrosk received the glare with little alarm, slowly making his way toward the nearby terminal. With an absence of haste, he punched in the command to power down the restraints.

The bands around the Jedi's arms dissipated and the girl immediately clutched at her wrists. Fay reached out with her hand, offering it to the young girl. Nami looked at it for a moment before accepting, carefully stepping off of the cold slab.

"What's going on? What happened to the ship?" Nami softly asked.

Fay slightly bent her legs, inching her face slightly closer to that of the Jedi. "You don't remember anything that happened since arriving on Kaas?".

"No. All I remember is feeling really sick, then I woke up here," Nami explained. The girl maintained her grip on the tall woman's hand, and Fay was not about to rip it away. The Kineticist paused as she formulated her next words, but quickly found herself overtaken.

"Would you mind telling us about Mina?" Syrosk bluntly asked.

Fay could feel the Jedi's grip tighten around her hand. The girl's breathing, which had since calmed down, slowly began to ramp back up. Her eyes grew wide, wider than Fay had ever seen on the girl, as they slowly began to shiver. As the inquisitive eyes of the four Sith fell upon her, Nami grew increasingly uncomfortable. But as she tried to shy away, she was overcome by a stinging feeling in the back of her head. Prodding the sore spot with her finger prompted a sharp wince in the girl's face.

"Ow…" Nami mumbled.

"Sorry, had to… you know…" Fay politely offered before mocking a quick backhanded motion.

"So it's really true…" Nami said, almost whispering, eyes drifting toward the floor. "You met Mina…"

"I wouldn't call it much of a meeting," Asher stated, words muffled by his raised hand. "You just knocked us around and tried to bolt out the door."

"No, I didn't! That… that wasn't me."

"Then who was it?" Fay asked, her words both calm and patient. "Help us understand."

"Mina, she's… she's been a part of me as long as I can remember," Nami explained. "But I'm not her, and she's not me."

"You just share a body?" Fay suggested.

The girl nodded. "Yeah."

Fay offered a quick nod of her own before straightening out her stance. "And how often does she take over?"

"Almost never! At least, not since I began training with Master Daedan. He taught me how to stay in control. But... he's gone and... sometimes I can't help it..."

"Like when you're in danger?" Fay suggested. The girl offered a hesitant nod, to which the tall woman gently scratched her chin. "Well, how are you feeling now?"

"Pretty normal," Nami admitted. "My head still kinda hurts…" The girl's voice trailed off as her gaze slowly panned over toward Syrosk. Eyeing the elder Sith, the Jedi offered a look of trepidation, laced with a bubbling interest.

"This is Syrosk," said Fay, jutting a thumb toward the heavy-eyed alien. "He's our boss."

"I… didn't know the Sith had aliens amongst them," Nami admitted, a softness continuing to lace her words.

"They typically don't," Syrosk bluntly stated, maintaining his harsh glare.

"Well, it's… nice to meet you," Nami struggled to get out.

The horned Sith released a low grumble. "Do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into? If not for Fay, you'd be dead right now."

There was more than one way for the Jedi to take his words. Fay's refusing to fight aboard the pirate ship. Fay's willingness to take her in. Fay's prevention of her escape when she lost control. Raising her gaze to meet the tall woman's, she decided upon the meaning that brought her most comfort. But the comfort was fleeting amidst the girl's current circumstances.

"What's done is done," Fay declared. "What matters is where we go from here. Do you still want to join us, Nami?"

The girl offered a silent nod.

"That's not for her, nor you, to decide," Syrosk rasped. "And besides, does she truly know what she'll be put through if we take her in? Does she have any idea what it means to be a Sith?"

"No less than what you know it means to be a Jedi," Nami replied.

Maintaining his cold stare, the rough alien leaned in close, his pointed horn nearly catching the girl's robes. "I know exactly what it means to be a Jedi. I met enough of your kind during the war to know how you think, how you act, and how you live. I have suffered pain and prejudice at the hands of my own brothers and sisters for decades now, and still I would rather continue suffering that burden than associate myself with your Order."

"I may have been trained as a Jedi, but I'm not one of them," Nami quietly admitted. "Not anymore."

Syrosk released a brief harrumph. "You can keep telling yourself that. You left because they rejected you, not the other way around. Deep in your heart, you remain one of them. You know nothing of our methods, of our culture, of the dark side. Stepping foot on this planet literally rendered you infirm."

"She didn't seem that weak when she flung you into a wall," Fay declared, arms crossed beneath her chest. "And she seems to have acclimated rather quickly, wouldn't you say? Even you must find that impressive."

The elder Sith straightened his posture, diverting his harsh glare toward the tall woman. "For someone so intent on defending her, you seem keen on sending her to her death. What do you suppose will happen when she enters the Academy? Once the other acolytes realize her past? Do you honestly think they won't break every rule they can in order to see her killed? Only the strongest can survive the trials, and that's when they don't have a giant target painted on their back."

"Every acolyte has a target on their back," Fay firmly stated. "If she wants this, I'm sure she'll find a way to succeed."

"She's right. I want this!" Nami confidently added. "Sith are about strength and freedom, right? I want to be strong. I want to be free."

"Freedom comes only to those willing to take it," Syrosk replied, an extra chill behind his usual rasp. "Are you willing? Willing to kill? Willing to deceive? Willing to betray?"

"I thought the entire point of the Executors was to avoid the normal trappings of the Sith," Fay admitted.

"The Executors, yes. But I've no influence over the Academies. Not anymore," Syrosk admitted. "You will not find a more rigid institution in all the Empire. You do not bend its rules without heavy consequence."

"Maybe we don't, but you know someone who could," Fay declared.

The alien's eyes sharpened. "I am not going to ask Vowrawn to grant her special privilege!"

There was a heavy silence as no one opted to speak.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"And that is why…" Syrosk struggled to say, almost mumbling, "I would ask for your… assistance… in this matter."

The Executor stood alone in his home's interior chamber, accompanied only by the flickering projection above the room's holoterminal. The fuzzy electronic image of man looked down upon the horned Sith, his features masked by the shoddy device. Little more than the outline of a fairly thin figure garbed in extravagant robes could be seen, but still the Dark Councilor for Production and Logistics managed to exude a powerful presence.

"They brought back a Jedi?" the voice of Darth Vowrawn poured out of the terminal's speakers. It carried only the slightest hint of surprise, instead possessing a charming regality instilled into every syllable. His words were smooth, an utter contrast to the raspy grit that poured from the alien, despite belonging to a man of similar age.

"Yes," Syrosk hesitantly replied.

"On their first mission?"

"Yes."

"And she wants to become Sith?"

"Correct," said Syrosk as calmly as he could.

Suddenly, the electronic image leaned back, and a chortle poured out of the speakers. As the Darth partook in a short fit of restrained laughter, the alien looked upon his superior with abject bewilderment.

"Sir?" Syrosk softly spoke up as the image of the jovial Councilor returned to a calmer state.

"I pride myself on my ability to expect the unexpected, Syrosk," Vowrawn admitted. "But this…"

"I understand it's less than ideal..."

"On the contrary," Vowrawn interrupted. "I believe this served as an effective measure of the Executors' skills, did it not? We need problem solvers. We're not the Ministry of War, for Emperor's sake."

"It's one thing to turn a Jedi to our side, it's another to sneak an unprocessed one into the heart of our capital," Syrosk rasped.

"You _were_ the one that requested your people be given priority clearance on transit."

"So you've no objections to their actions?" Syrosk asked, slightly taken aback. "None at all?"

"Assuming the Jedi is genuine in her desire to join us, then no, I haven't," Vowrawn admitted. "Of the countless troubles I face on a daily basis, I'd consider this one fairly innocuous."

"So, just like that, we welcome a Jedi in our fold?" Syrosk muttered through gritted teeth.

"Do you have any idea how many Jedi we've placed in the Academies since the war's end?" Vowrawn asked. "Ideology doesn't mean much when you've no home and the chance to join the winning side. She'll be tested like all the others. If she survives, she'll find a place amongst our Order."

"A place within your Sphere?"

"I suppose it would be a good addition," said Vowrawn, the Councilor's fuzzy image scratching its chin. "Vengean has his defectors. Baras has his spies. It'd be nice to have a fallen Jedi of my own."

"The trio you gave me... they wanted her to be an Executor," Syrosk explained.

"Hmm," Vowrawn muttered, still scratching his chin. "It'd be months before she made it through the Academy, assuming she possesses some semblance of skill. I suppose when the time came there'd be a place for her in the organization. Operations will have likely expanded by then."

Syrosk fell silent as his head dipped, hesitant to speak. "Fay… suggested letting her join their group. Your group."

"My group?" Vowrawn shot back, removing the hand from his chin. The alien offered a brief nod. It was now the Darth's turn to fall silent as his image came to a halt. "And it was Fay that suggested this?"

"Correct."

"Was it a suggestion of necessity or desire?" asked Vowrawn.

"The woman seems quite attached to her for some reason," Syrosk explained. "She's done nothing but try and accommodate her since her arrival, perhaps even prior."

"Is that so?" Vowrawn mumbled, a slight increase in the Councilor's pitch.

"Don't tell me you're actually considering this," Syrosk rasped as he leaned forward, palms gripping the edge of the holoterminal.

"Would you be capable of handling a fourth?" Vowrawn asked.

"I thought the entire point of this group was the fact that these three were special cases?"

"They are. Which is why we cannot risk losing the trust of one of them this early," Vowrawn declared. "It is a minor concession to ensure the health of the group moving forward."

"A minor concession?" Syrosk repeated, mouth almost hanging agape.

"What is one more to a man who once trained eight apprentices?" Vowrawn asked, bordering on teasing.

"As atypical they were, none of them were former Jedi!" Syrosk firmly stated.

"But they were aliens, slaves, outcasts… people who had no right learning the ways of the Sith. And yet, you taught them. You brought the best out of them. Which is what I expect of you now. And if you must do it to a fourth to accommodate the first three, then so be it."

"And what shall we do whilst the girl is put through one of the Academies? Hmm?"

"Wasn't your plan to train the Executors after they succeeded on their first mission? I'm sure you'll still have plenty to do for the time being," said Vowrawn.

"These Sith are capable. They'll be ready to proceed long before the Jedi makes it through her trials," Syrosk declared.

"Now, I'm not entirely sure of that," Vowrawn replied. "I've a rather firm presence on Ziost. I could always expedite the process. Certain Overseers there are known for their… efficiency. The challenge is greater than usual, but the results are rather potent. Of course, the only way she'll officially graduate the Academy is with a Sith Lord ready to accept her as an apprentice."

"I'm sure you've enough Lords within your Sphere to find one suitable," Syrosk rasped.

"Of that, I have no doubt," Vowrawn stated. "But most would want her for themselves. There's really only one way to ensure her a spot within the Executors. A spot in the group."

"You're not suggesting that I…"

"Make her your apprentice?" Vowrawn cut the alien off. "It would solve all of our problems, wouldn't it?"

"Not all of them," Syrosk mumbled.

"Is there something I should be aware of?" Vowrawn asked as the electronic image cocked its head to the side.

The alien softly shook his head. "No. But what about the fact that I'm no longer a Sith Lord?"

"You'll always be a Lord, Syrosk," Vowrawn replied. "Your title of Executor merely takes precedence." Syrosk's head dipped as began gently rubbing his brow. "Don't worry, this is just a formality as she moves through the system. Once she's out of the Academy, she'll be an apprentice in name only. She'll be an Executor just like the rest."

* * *

"How do you think it's going in there?" Graves asked.

Situated nearer the entrance of the alien's domicile, the three Sith and their Jedi friend stood patiently near one another, bouncing their gazes between themselves and the shut door that obscured their boss.

"I can sense the subtle shifts in tone, but nothing definitive," Fay admitted, arms crossed, back against the wall, eyes shut.

"So… he's really talking to a member of the Dark Council in there?" Nami softly asked. "Like, one of the leaders of the Empire?"

"That's who he works for. And that's who we work for," Fay explained.

"Technically, every Sith works for at least one of the Councilors, it's just matter of how long the chain of command separating you is," said Graves. "Everyone in a particular Sphere of Influence can eventually be tied to its respective Council member."

"What sphere do you belong to?" Nami asked.

"Production and Logistics," Graves replied. "But that's a recent change for all of us."

"Where were you before?"

"Defense of the Empire," said Graves.

"Military Offense," Asher spoke up, his nose having ceased its discharge.

"Military Strategy," Fay stated.

"Really?" Asher and Graves offered in unison. The tall woman opened her eyes, only to offer a brief shrug of her shoulders.

"The Spheres don't really come into play until you become a Lord. Until then, you're just an agent of your master's will," Fay explained. "Besides, everything tied to the Ministry of War sort of bleeds together anyway."

"I see," Nami muttered, processing her brief insights into Imperial culture. "But with the war over, you were forced to join a different group?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Graves admitted. "Until a few days ago, we were still a part of our respective Spheres. Even in peacetime, the military Spheres are alive and kicking."

"But since our masters died, we didn't exactly have much to do," Asher stated. "We had affiliations, but no one wanted to affiliate with us."

"Until we got word that someone from Logistics wanted us," Fay added. "That's when we met Syrosk."

"The alien?" Nami asked.

"The alien," Fay replied. "Now we're Executors. Fixing the Empire from within, and apparently saving Jedi from themselves."

The young girl bit her lip. "Do you think they'll let me join you?"

"Well, you're Human, so at least you've got that going for you," Asher snarked.

"I'm sure they will," said Fay, paying the burned Sith no mind. "For some reason, Syrosk and his boss seem intent on keeping us happy. Which means if they don't want to see me angry, they'll find a place for you."

"But isn't it dangerous to stand up to them like that?" Nami softly asked. "Would you really risk your livelihood just for me?"

The tall woman let out a brief chuckle. "Risk starts to take on a different meaning once you become Sith. This is nothing, trust me."

"Speak for yourself," Asher muttered. "Everything we've been given can just as quickly be taken away, and I don't fancy losing my new starship."

"_Your_ new starship?" Graves spoke up.

"Fine. _Our_ new starship. Speaking of which, if it's going to be housing a fourth, we _definitely_ need to renovate it."

"We can ask for some upgrades later," Fay dismissed.

"Later?" Asher shot back. "You're willing to brute force a Jedi onto our team, but asking for some furniture is too much?"

"Yeah, got a problem with that?" Fay sternly replied, casting her sharpened eyes toward the burned Sith. Saving Asher the trouble of responding was the sound of the chamber's interior door opening. Stepping from the confines of the domicile's communications room, Syrosk joined the group, his head held neither high nor low.

"So what's the verdict?" asked Fay.

"Come with me. All of you," Syrosk instructed as he made his way toward the exit with his heavy, uneven gait. Without another word, the elder trudged out of the domicile and into the halls of the Kaas Citadel. The other four were left standing around, dumbfounded as they quickly shoved off of their respective walls. The Jedi and Sith left the chamber, following the Lord without a second thought.

As the group caught up the with hasty yet sluggish alien, they saw only the back of Syrosk's head as he continued to march forward, stopping only once he had reached the Executors' headquarters. His leathery hand hovering over the entrance's control panel, the Sith Lord finally turned to face his underlings.

"Before we continue, answer me this," Syrosk began, casting his cold gaze upon the young girl. "Your condition. Can you control it?"

"I think so," Nami hesitantly offered.

"You either can, or you can't. Which is it?"

"I can," Nami quickly replied with a firm nod.

"Good. From now on, it stays between us," Syrosk declared. "No one else is to know about it, understand?"

Nami gave another nod.

"Then we can proceed," Syrosk muttered. With nary a pause, the Sith Lord opened the door before him and stepped into his organization's heart. Following him, the three younger Sith soon found themselves amongst the same terminals and monitors as before, in the company of the same bustling Imperials hastily crossing paths on their way between stations. For the fourth, however, it was a brand new sight.

There was something intriguing about the scene. People with no true understanding of the Force, operating with some measure of organized chaos. There was a procedure to be gleaned from the erratic motions for any who cared to study them. There was also a vibrancy amidst the cold, gray environment as lights flickered and flashed, each carrying its own distinct meaning.

"My lord, you've returned," a woman's voice called out from the compact assemblage, soft yet confident, the posh Imperial accent immediately recognizable to the young Jedi. The clean cut youth stepped toward the entering Sith with datapad carried firmly in hand. The gray uniform that covered her slender frame maintained its pristine order amidst its wearer's enduring urgency and haste. "Is everything alright? You were gone for quite some time."

"Everything is fine," Syrosk calmly stated, somewhat of a return to his usual gritty stoicism. "I need you to make a tentative entry for Executor Six."

From behind the alien, the young Jedi perked up, her eyes growing wide. Turning her head, she looked up to see Fay offering a reassuring, confident smile. Meanwhile, the datapad-wielding Imperial leaned past her superior's shoulder to see the increasingly giddy girl that stood behind him. She could only puzzle at the sight of the young girl in bland, beige robes.

"Executor Six, sir?" the Imperial asked for confirmation.

The elder offered a brief nod. "Her name is Nami. She'll be receiving the same treatment as the other three."

"Understood, my lord," the Imperial offered with a dutiful dip of her head. "Is that all?"

"For now," said Syrosk. "The girl will be training on Ziost for the foreseeable future. I just want an entry started in the meantime."

"Very well, my lord," the Imperial replied. "Shall I retrieve her file for review?"

"Don't bother. She doesn't have one."

The Imperial offered an arch of her brow as she peered over toward the young girl, whom offered a warm wave of her hand. "I'm afraid I don't understand…"

"You're not alone," Syrosk rasped. "Nami. Executor Six. Tentative entry. Understood?"

"Of course, my lord," the Imperial replied, tapping away at her datapad. As the woman disappeared back into the bureaucratic fold, the Sith were left to tend to themselves at the chamber's entrance.

"Did you say Ziost?" asked Fay.

"That's right," Syrosk replied. "Logistics has a heavy presence there. Vowrawn is going to pull some strings, get Nami on the fast track through the Academy."

"That's good right?" Nami offered alongside a beaming smile. For once, none of the others reciprocated, not even Fay.

"In a Sith Academy, an instructor's mission is to teach and prepare acolytes for the trials to come. An Overseer's mission is to give said trials and whittle a group of acolytes down to one capable apprentice," Syrosk explained. "The process of moving between training, evaluation, and apprenticeship can takes months. In reducing that timeframe, you'll be forced to face even greater dangers than usual."

"You're handing her off directly to an Overseer, aren't you?" asked Graves.

"That is the intention, yes," Syrosk replied.

"But Overseers only evaluate acolytes for interested Lords," Fay stated. "Does that mean…?"

"Yes. If she succeeds, she'll become my apprentice. Just to give her a formal position before becoming an Executor."

Fay placed a warm hand on the young Jedi's shoulder. "Hear that? Already moving up in society."

Asher scratched his chin, wrappings still stained with red. "But wait, if she fails, doesn't that mean you're stuck with whoever beats her as an apprentice?"

"She won't fail, right Nami?" Fay asked.

"Right!" Nami replied, matching the tall woman's confidence.

"Do not speak with such certainty," Syrosk rasped. "The Academy is dangerous to all who step within its boundaries. Your trials will be especially great. If you are to succeed, you must prepare."

"Prepare how?" asked Nami.

"It will take at least a week before you're entered into the system. Your training will not begin until then, so prior to your induction, you will receive training," Syrosk declared.

"You're going to train her... to prepare her for more training?" Asher snarked.

"Not I. Vowrawn is not the only one with friends on Ziost," Syrosk muttered.

"Maybe I can help too," Fay offered. "I trained there, and I'd be more than happy to lend a hand if she needs it."

"No. You're needed here. As am I," Syrosk declared. "I'll escort her to Ziost. From there, she controls her own fate. If she desires a place amongst the Sith, she must walk the Sith path." The horned alien cast his heavy stare toward the young Jedi. "If there's anything you'd like to say, now's the time to say it. You won't be seeing each other again for some time."

The young girl looked to the trio of Sith, and the woman who had granted her this new life. Her lips began to curl into a gentle smile. "Goodbye, Fay."

"This isn't a goodbye," Fay warmly stated. "We'll see each other again. I know it."

The girl offered an appreciative nod before finding the Sith Lord's hand shooing her toward the chamber's entrance. The girl offered one final wave of her hand, which Fay and Graves reciprocated, before disappearing alongside Syrosk into the halls of the Citadel.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the three Sith were left alone, backs to the persistent movements of the uniformed Imperials behind them. Taking a deep breath, the tall woman released it a moment later, turning toward the scarred man at her side.

"Thanks for going along with this," said Fay. "It was kind of selfish to spring this on you and Asher."

"Saw no reason to object," Graves admitted. "She seemed nice. Though given recent revelations, are you sure she won't be dangerous?"

"A dangerous Sith? What would _that_ be like?" Asher snarked.

"It'll be fine. She's strong. She'll adapt," Fay firmly stated. "She just needs a home. And a purpose."

"Understandable," Graves stoically offered.

Turning his head, the scarred man had expected to see his two fellows beside him, but was surprised to see only one. The burned Sith had already stepped away, but not toward the chamber's exit.

"Oy, miss!" Asher called out, waving his hand across the small sea of attendants and monitors. The woman from before, the young officer carrying a datapad, noticed the call and quickly made her way across the room.

"Yes, my lord, can I help you?" the Imperial patiently asked.

"Yeah, we need to, uh, requisition some improvements for our ship," said Asher. "You're the person to talk to about that, right?"

"Uh, I suppose so," the Imperial admitted, "but I'd need to hear from Executor Zero first-"

"Well, this is coming straight from Darth Vowrawn," Asher declared.

"Darth Vowrawn?" The Imperial perked up at the mere mention of the name. Her stance went rigid, straining in its attempt to be as upright as possible.

"That's right," Asher stated. "The big guy says we need to maintain a certain level of operational efficiency, and to keep up with our duties, we need to make some renovations to the _Fury_."

"Renovations? Like what?" the Imperial asked, datapad at the ready.

"Oh, you know..." Asher coyly began, "a more evenly distributed living quarters, onboard refreshers and showers, padded seats in the cockpit…"

As the burned Sith spoke, the Imperial dutifully jotted down notes on her tablet.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"I'll… I'll put in your requests at once, my lord," said the dutiful Imperial. The uniformed woman took a step away from the burned Sith, datapad cradled in her arms, eventually disappearing into the rear folds of the Executor base.

With a brazen smile upon his face, Asher turned to face his partners, who offered only their silent judgment.

"Looks like our new home's getting some upgrades," said Asher, oozing with accomplishment.

"Hopefully Syrosk doesn't take them all away when he gets back," Graves replied.

"It's all for the good of the organization, right?" Asher casually stated. "Besides, the officer didn't offer any objections."

"That's probably because she was approached by a charred Sith in blood-soaked wrappings," said Fay. Asher's eyes went wide as he brought a finger to his mouth. Prodding the material beneath his nose, he noticed that they possessed a copious amount of dried blood wrought from his previously busted nose.

"Oh..." Asher muttered. "Does it look stupid or menacing?"

"Does it really matter?"

The burned Sith looked around before leaning in close to his partners, whispering, "I don't want to look bad in front of the Imperials."

"You care about what they think?" Fay asked.

"He cares about what everyone thinks," said Graves.

"Shut up. No I don't," Asher mumbled.

"Do you care about what _we_ think?" asked Fay.

Asher ducked his gaze. "We have to work together. You two are different."

"So is that a yes, or a no?" Fay pressed.

Asher averted his gaze, crossing his arms. "Well…"

The burned Sith was cut off by a harsh chirp emanating from the room's central holoterminal. The motions about the cramped headquarters went into overdrive as the officers and coordinators swarmed around the terminal.

"We're getting a distress signal!" one of the attendants called out. Another of the uniformed Imperials rushed to the central terminal's controls, inputting a series of quick commands. All errant information was purged from the three-dimensional display above the device and it was slowly replaced with maps and ship diagnostics.

"It's the freighter X1 is stationed aboard," another voice called out.

"Open a secure channel," a female instructed, instantly firm in her delivery. Pushing her way past her fellows, the datapad-carrying Imperial from before approached the holoterminal, a determined glint in her eyes. She was composed, even in the face of trouble, marking her demeanor as more than simple Imperial conditioning.

Meanwhile, the three Sith stood near the chamber's entrance, watching the small collective of officers rigorously tend to their duties. Amidst the ordered chaos, amidst the constant motion and flow, they were stilled, wearing dumfounded expressions upon their faces.

"Syrosk is probably still in the building… should I go get him?" Fay asked of no one in particular.

"We can handle things ourselves, my lord," the woman replied, balancing candor with respect, eyes glued to the blooming stream of data being projected. The image of a stock Imperial freighter appeared above the terminal, a sturdy, stocky vessel designed for the transportation of cargo. Limited offensive or defensive capabilities. The current stream of data spoke of even greater limitations.

"Channel secured," a man called out from one of the wall-bound terminals. "Communications opened."

The maps and models above the central holoterminal parted, giving room to the image of the freighter's primary pilot. The electronic figure was seated, encased in an all-encompassing flightsuit, arms darting across the controls in front of him.

"This is LTF-5993," said the pilot, frantic yet methodical in his delivery. "Our ship was intercepted between hyperlanes by a lone pirate vessel. We lost primary and auxiliary power. They hit us with some sort of ion cannon."

The Imperial woman narrowed her gaze. "Acknowledged. Can you repair the damage?"

"We could barely get communications and sensors back online," the pilot explained. "The engines could take hours."

"And Executor One, is he with you?"

The pilot looked over his shoulder before returning to his console. "Yes, he's-"

"I told you, I can handle it," a soft voice called out over the communications channel from off-screen. Executor One. Male. Utterly calm. Almost flippant. "Tell them everything's under control."

"The pirates are closing in," the pilot relayed, ignoring the voice behind him.

"Do they intend to board you?" the woman asked.

"I don't think so," the pilot muttered. "They aren't directly aligned with any of our ports. I think they're going cut into our hull and space the cargo. Salvage what they can from the outside."

"Well, I guess they're screwed," Asher declared. "It's not like a Sith escort is of much use now."

"Who said that?" the off-screen voice called out. The burned Sith froze, unaware his voice would be picked up on the communications channel.

As the eyes of nearly a dozen Imperials fell to him, Asher released a light scoff and haughtily stepped toward the holoterminal. "Executor Three."

"Curious. You don't sound like Dev," Executor One said, his voice containing not a sliver of worry.

"Don't know or care who that is," Asher replied.

"My lords, please," the datapad-toting woman interrupted, trying take control of the conversation whilst affording the Sith some measure of respect. "This is not the time to lose focus."

"Like I said, I've got things handled over here," said Executor One. "Just ask my handler or Syrosk. They'll vouch for me."

Just then, the officers huddled around the holoterminal focused on one of their brothers, one of the nondescript Humans amongst nondescript Humans.

"Uh…" the handler mumbled. "Syrosk says he's pretty good."

"'Pretty good' doesn't mean much when you're stuck in a depowered ship," Asher snidely offered.

"Was that 'Three' again?" Executor One asked. The off-screen voice then release a soft chuckle. "Don't worry about us. I'll call after I've handled the pirates."

Another figure appeared in the holoprojection for only a brief moment, reaching past the seated pilot. Afterwards the transmission ceased. The image faded, and the gathered Imperials were left with only maps and the freighter's model to look at.

"Sir, he closed the channel," the handler nervously spoke up.

The datapad-wielding woman released an almost inaudible sigh as she gently rubbed her brow. "Everyone, return to your stations, but stay alert. We'll wait for X1's call."

One by one, the uniformed Imperials dispersed, until only the woman and the mysterious Executor's handler continued to monitor the central holoterminal. The three Sith were once more left to themselves.

"Do you make it a point to antagonize everyone you meet?" Fay asked the burned and bloodied Sith.

"Whatever, it's not like he's coming back," Asher muttered. "Remember what I said about most Sith fatalities occurring in space?"

"We seemed to do pretty well against our batch of pirates," said Graves.

"That's because we were in the same ship as them," Asher replied. "A Sith can't do anything with a vacuum between him and his targets."

* * *

The flightsuit-encased pilot stared speechlessly at the hand that had intruded in front of him. The one that had just cut off communications.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the pilot barked, dropping all pretense of respect.

The Sith slowly pulled back and the pilot could only watch as the red sleeve left his view. Spinning around in his chair, the Imperial had hoped to see something upon his escort's face. Some measure of hate or fear or expressiveness befitting a halted craft sitting in the sights of a band of pirates. Instead, he only found a calm, gentle smile upon the Human's visage.

A man in his mid-thirties, the Executor possessed an oddly vibrant youth about him. His complexion was flawless, absent of any scarring or corruption expected of a man in his line of work. The golden hair atop his head was worn short and clean, parted with a casual formality. In all things he was smooth, but never soft.

"We're stuck out here," the Executor calmly stated. "There's no chance of reinforcements arriving before the pirates rip us apart."

The pilot froze. There was nothing more he could say. Nothing more he could do. With those words, the Sith had confirmed his fate. And yet, there was something soothing about them. The Executor carried an unwavering charisma that seemed almost capable of overcoming the dread steadily consuming the stilled Imperial.

"I can handle this, but I need your help. Do you understand?" the Executor asked, tranquil in his delivery.

"I… of course, my lord," the pilot whimpered, dipping his head.

"Alright. Which hatch are the pirates nearest?"

"My lord, unless they dock, there's nothing-"

"You just have to trust me," the Executor assuaged. The pilot paused. Only after gazing into the Sith's steady eyes for a few seconds did he spin his chair back toward the cockpit's console.

"Hatch number four. Rear of the ship. Port side," the pilot stated.

"The hatches still work under emergency power, correct?"

"Yes."

"Good. Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes," the Executor declared, stepping away from the pilot.

"What… what are you going to do?" the pilot asked.

The door leading out of the cockpit parted, granting the Sith access into the freighter's central corridor. There he stood, clad in black armor beset by a vibrant red coat, shooting a quick glance back to the sitting Imperial.

"I'm going to kill some pirates."

* * *

Back in the dark halls of the Kaas Citadel, two figures slowly made their way through the oppressive corridors. Syrosk and Nami. The alien and the Jedi.

The elder Sith set the pace with his uneven gait, the girl following closely at his side. Whilst Syrosk kept his focus unerringly forward as he trudged along, Nami couldn't help but observe her unfamiliar surroundings. The nearby walls and fixtures spoke of a rigidity baked into their aesthetic. It was an unwelcoming place for unwelcoming peoples. As evident by the cold stares cast their way by all they passed. The girl visibly shrunk under the burden of sharpened eyes and sideward glances, ducking her head and shielding her face.

"Should I have changed into something different?" Nami whispered to the Sith at her side. The Jedi was garbed in her Padawan's robes, simplistic and of earthen tones. Drab, yet still a contrast to the Imperial designs that surrounded her.

"Don't worry," Syrosk curtly replied, more a command than appeasement. "They're not looking at you."

"Really? 'Cause it doesn't seem that way," Nami whispered, still shielding her face.

"You've no reason to stand out so long as you act as if you belong," Syrosk rasped.

"What, is that supposed to be my first lesson?" Nami quietly asked.

"If it means you take it to heart, then yes," Syrosk begrudgingly replied. "If you don't wish to be perceived as weak, as an outsider, as a Jedi… don't give anybody a reason to do so. So stop acting like you have something to hide."

Nami dropped her hands to her sides and straightened her posture as well as she could. Putting on a strong face, the girl tried to shut out her surroundings, but couldn't help but notice every errant glance sent her way. However, as more did, she slowly realized her new master was correct. They were primarily focused on him, not her.

"They're staring at you. Why?" asked Nami.

"Because no matter how much I act like I belong here, I can't disguise my being an alien."

"Which they don't like?"

"They don't care for it, no," Syrosk bluntly stated.

"But you choose to endure their… distaste?"

"Correct," Syrosk plainly answered.

"I see," Nami mumbled. "I'm sure you've your reasons for doing so. I'll not inquire further."

The Sith Lord turned as he walked, casting an arch of his brow toward the young Jedi. "Perhaps you are less like your former fellows than I previously thought."

The pair moved beyond the threshold of the Citadel, stepping into the open air of Dromund Kaas. Landing platforms and walkways stretched out in front of them, ready to welcome the best and brightest of the Empire into its coldly warm embrace. Beyond, a deep and cavernous ravine separated the two travelers from the rest of the city. Above, the dark and crackling sky of the perpetually storming atmosphere filtered the light from the stars beyond. The shadowed haze kept the grounds below subjected to dim days and harsh nights.

In the distance, to the rear and the sides of the Citadel, skyscrapers lay nestled within the various valleys and ridges that populated the area. Amidst the planet's natural chaos and disorder, there was control. The denizens had dug a home for themselves upon the surface of the dark world. They had conquered the harsh jungles that surrounded them. It was not merely a place for Dark Lords to preside over and call their sanctum. There was life here. Citizenry. People who knew nothing of the Force living amongst the shadows, unburdened by the planet's darkness.

"Wow…" Nami whispered to herself, stopping to take in the sights.

"There'll be time to admire the view another day," Syrosk rasped. "We need to keep moving."

The Executor marched forward, his cold eyes set upon a taxi docked at the end of a nearby walkway. Snapping out of her momentary daze, the girl rushed to catch up with the Sith Lord.

"Hey, wait!" Nami called out.

* * *

"Wait, you can't be serious!"

The sharp voice of the freighter's pilot spilled out of the room's speakers, filling the compact chamber Executor One found himself in. The Human stood alone, lit only by emergency lighting. Behind him, a simple lever. Ahead of him, hatch number four.

"We can still open and close this hatch right?" the Executor shouted toward the ceiling.

"Uh… yes," the pilot relayed through the ship's comm.

As the panicked words of the pilot graced his ears, the Human in the red coat was growing increasingly calm. Pulling a simplistic hilt from his waist, the Sith firmly grasped the lightsaber in his right hand, reaching his left toward the switch behind him. Planting his feet, the Executor closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before evacuating the air from his lungs.

Just as the pilot was about to throw out another query, the Sith tugged on the lever behind him. As it flipped, the exterior hatch of the Imperial freighter quickly opened. In a matter of moments, the wall opposite the Executor had parted, exposing the chamber to the vacuum of space. The air swiftly left the once-sealed chamber, threatening to drag the Sith along with it. But through sheer force of will, the Human managed to keep his feet planted. And it was that same will that would protect him as he drove himself forward.

Kicking off the wall behind him, the Human launched himself past the open hatch and into the cold void of space. Soaring weightlessly through the vacuum between the freighter and the nearby pirate vessel, the Sith ignited the hilt within his hand, extended its crimson blade. With a lightsaber and the Force, he had his weapon and his shield.

To the Sith's right, pirates encased in deep-space miner's suits had maneuvered beside the freighter's hull, modified laser cutters in hand. As the thieves magnetically secured themselves to the Imperial ship's exterior, they were attached to their own vessel by way of cords and tubes that served as their lifelines. So focused on cutting their way into the cargo bay, the team didn't see the unprotected Human fly past them toward their vessel.

The pirate ship was little more than a large brick with aftermarket weapons attached to its belly. At one point in its life, it might have served as a freighter similar to the Imperials' own, hauling cargo across the vastness of space. But its current crew had repurposed it into an assault vessel. A capable craft, its most notable feature was the open bay on its left face that, while incapable of holding even the smallest starfighter, could serve as a launching point for a small group of infiltrators. Against standard opposition, it was certainly capable of defending itself. But there was nothing standard about its opposition that day.

The Executor had no senses to call upon. He was deafened, blinded, unfeeling, all of his own volition. But whatever information he needed, he found though the Force. After almost twenty seconds of drifting through the vacuum, the Sith twirled about, putting his feet ahead of him just in time for them to impact against the viewport of the pirate vessel's cockpit. With a plunge of his blade, the Executor cracked the seal. Exacerbating the mechanical wound, the Sith clenched his left fist, and swung his arm wide, telekinetically ripping the viewports asunder, spacing the lone pilot alongside a stream of shattered windows and metal.

As the consoles and controls within sparked and fizzled, the ship slowly lost control, rotating along its central axis. Pressing down upon himself with the Force, the Executor ran along the pirate vessel's side, unburdened by the lack of gravity or atmosphere. Approaching the assault freighter's leftward bay, the Sith released his grip on his lightsaber, throwing it with a controlled arc. The crimson blade twirled with grace across the vacuum of space, severing the cords and tubes connecting the distant scavengers to their vessel. The lightsaber circled around, guided by the Force, back into its master's hand as the disconnected lifelines spurted and flailed.

Alongside the Imperial freighter, the pirates who had been cutting their way through the outer hull found themselves without air and were quickly losing pressure in their mining suits. Their magnetic grips began to fail and one by one they clutched and grabbed at their own throats. Those who managed to turn around, caught a brief glimpse of their vessel floating lifelessly as their vision turned black.

Running back along the pirate vessel's hull, the Executor took a mighty leap, soaring through the void back toward his own freighter's open hatch. Drifting through the vacuum, the Sith maintained his focus as his red coat gently undulated amidst the zero gravity. Second after second passed, his will the only thing preserving him. Floating through the open hatch, the Executor crashed into the floor as he was once more taken hold by the freighter's artificial gravity. From the ground, the Sith reached out and telekinetically flipped the lever back into its upright position.

The hatch closed behind him. The chamber began to seal. Pressure began to equalize. Air began to flow.

Slowly, the Executor lifted himself from the floor, drawing his first breath in minutes. Calmly patting himself off, the Sith appeared no worse for wear as he gently rubbed his eyes and nose.

"My lord? My lord, are you alright?" the pilot's voice filled the chamber.

The Sith let out a breathy chuckle. "I'm fine. The pirates have been dealt with."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Soaring above the dark metropolis, Syrosk and Nami sat in the back seats of a taxi, chauffeured by the airspeeder's droid pilot. The skylane upon which they traveled was low, lower than the usual urban travel the Jedi had known. The reason soon became obvious.

As the dark and crackling sky loomed above them, bolts of lightning would come down with reckless abandon, only to be intercepted by the spires that dotted the city's skyline. Conduits. Safeguards. Lightning rods. More evidence of the Imperials' willingness and ability to conquer the chaotic environment they called their home. But danger awaited any who would dare to stray too far.

Nami peered over the open speeder's edge, gazing toward the gray streets below. Rigid. Methodical. Controlled. The numerous walkways were populated by citizens and security in equal measure. Guards patrolled the streets, outfitted like full soldiers rather than simple police. Large battle droids watched over key intersections, constantly scanning their surroundings for emergent threats.

Beyond the city's denizens, there was an evident pride etched into every surface. Banners hung from the sides of skyscrapers, brightly flying the flags of the Empire. Monuments and memorials rose like obelisks, giving form to histories passed. Every face on every corner spoke of a discipline and patriotism.

"I expected to see more Sith," said Nami.

"Most Sith confine themselves to the Citadel or operate abroad," Syrosk explained. "Some have personal manors and estates further into the jungle."

"The stories we heard about Dromund Kaas, we all thought it was a military world."

"It is," Syrosk plainly stated.

"But… not everyone looks like a soldier," Nami muttered. "And I see markets… museums… eateries…"

"The Empire does not distinguish between soldier and civilian the way your Republic does," Syrosk rasped. "Military instruction is mandatory for every Imperial citizen. Every adult you see down there, from merchant to chef, knows how to properly clean and cycle a blaster."

"That's… impressive."

"The Empire values its discipline," Syrosk replied, no intonation in his voice.

"Really? That's not exactly the impression I get from the Sith," Nami declared.

"The Sith… are a different beast altogether."

"You make a distinction?" asked Nami. "Between Imperial and Sith?"

"You'd be a fool not to," Syrosk rasped. "Besides, it's not as if Jedi are held to the same standards as those outside their Order."

"But we had more rules, not less," Nami explained.

"You say that like it's something to be proud of."

"Oh right, I forgot. Sith hate rules," said Nami with an almost playful roll of her eyes.

"On the contrary. The Sith love rules. If they didn't have them, how would they prove their superiority by constantly disregarding them?" Syrosk replied, completely deadpan.

The young girl in the adjacent seat released a soft chuckle. "Funny."

"I was being serious," Syrosk rasped.

"Yeah, I gathered that," Nami replied, almost teasingly. "Still, rather curious."

"Not really. It becomes quite simple if you think about it."

"No, the fact that you used 'they' instead of 'we'."

"I did?" Syrosk paused. "A minor slip."

"Was it? I mean, many of your peers think you're not one of them. Maybe a little part of you does as well."

"Speaking from experience are you?" Syrosk growled. "And the people who have problems with me aren't my peers. Sith are individuals. Each unique. Each with their own thoughts. Their own desires. Their own methods. It's not about belonging. It's not about fitting in. It's about the ability to get what you desire."

"And what if 'what you desire' is belonging and fitting in?" Nami asked.

The alien Lord released a low chortle, momentarily breaking his stoic facade. Just as he was about to shoot back a witty, sardonic response, Syrosk realized he had none. Stroking his chin, the Executor dug deep for some barb, some quip to denounce the young girl's childish desire. But the well that had served him for more than sixty years was dry.

"You possess a wellspring of untapped power… a source that if drawn upon could grant you the ability to shape worlds and nations… and all you desire is friendship?" Syrosk asked, suitably befuddled.

"Well, it's not _all_ I desire," Nami mumbled, slumping somewhat in her seat. "I mean, I want to be able to defend myself and others. I want to be strong and independent. But I don't want to be alone. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"I was under the impression you were never alone," Syrosk rasped, tapping a finger against his brow.

The girl quickly turned her head in a huff. "I also want to be in control of my own body."

"Oddly enough, not an atypical desire for some Sith."

Nami pouted, firmly crossing her arms. "I know, but the fact that I don't want to cut myself off and hate everything makes me weird in your eyes, doesn't it?"

There was a beat as Syrosk let the conversation lull.

"Do not presume to know my thoughts," he rasped.

"Look, I know what you people hold core to your 'brand'," Nami declared, uncrossing her arms to make finger quotes. "I know I'm not really Sith material. I know I'm expected to befriend and betray and kill, in that order. I know the chances of me walking away from any of this are slim to none, but it's my only shot, alright? I've been kicked out of home after home after home… but then I found someone I thought genuinely cared about me. Someone who'd take me in despite the fact that I don't belong here just as much as any of the other places I've tried. I know the things the Sith and the Empire have done. Let's face it, on my list of people I want to be associated with, you're pretty freakin' low. I'm no Sith. Then again, I'm no Jedi. In fact, I'm nothing. I'm just a stupid girl who can't figure out that nobody wants her."

Syrosk turned to see tears falling down the young girl's cheeks.

"But who cares? Right?" Nami whispered. "Who cares about belonging and fitting in. Who cares if you're alone? Who needs friends? Who needs family? Jedi say attachments lead to the dark side. Sith say attachments make you weak. For all their differences, you people are exactly the same where it freakin' matters. They didn't want me. I know for a fact that you don't want me. You're just going along with this because you don't want to upset Fay. I'm just a burden. Like always. But it all makes sense, right? I mean, what kind of idiot would rush headfirst into mortal danger, just because she thinks she might make a friend. Months, training under the kind of people who only want to see you killed, to gain one friend. Yeah, that's totally sane, says the girl sharing her head with some other person she can barely control."

The girl leaned forward, burying her face in her hands, releasing muffled whimpers shortly thereafter.

"These are the things I care about," Nami mumbled, face still buried. "But Jedi aren't supposed to care. Sith aren't supposed to care. We're supposed to think, to consider… but never care."

Syrosk watched as the girl remained hunched over, sniffling and whimpering into the palms of her hands. He stared, with his usual cold, deadened stare. He breathed, with his usual calm, raspy breaths. He thought, with his usual deep, dwelling thoughts.

"Do you know what I was… prior to becoming an Executor?" asked Syrosk.

Nami pulled away from her hands, wiping her face with her sleeve. "I don't know… a Sith Lord?"

Syrosk looked upon the girl, staring into her watery eyes. "I would like to share a story with you."

* * *

"I mean, it's going to take a while for Syrosk to get back," Asher said to his comrades. "There really isn't any point in staying here."

"So, what? Go home for the evening?" Graves suggested.

"What you do is up to you," Asher replied with a flippant shrug. "Go home. Go drinking and get another bottle smashed over your head. The choice is yours really."

As the burned man took a step toward the Executor base's entrance, an electronic chirp rang out from the central holoterminal.

"We've got an incoming transmission!" a male attendant called out. "It's from LTF-5993!"

There was a rumbling of murmurs and footsteps as the other officers scurried toward the holoterminal. The three Sith watched with piqued interest.

"That's the same vessel from before," said Fay.

"Huh. Maybe the pirates just left them for dead rather than blowing them to pieces," Asher muttered, taking a step away from the chamber entrance.

The images being emitted above the holoterminal shifted and parted, making way for the image of the Imperial freighter's pilot. The flightsuited Human was in the same seated position as before, only this time, his movements seemed far less panicked.

"This is LTF-5993," the pilot relayed, calm but audibly exhausted. "Our ship is still immobile, but the aggressors have been dispatched."

There was a quick passing of excited gasps and cheers from the gathered Imperials. Graves and Fay appeared suitably impressed, even if their body language remained particularly rigid.

Asher, however, could only furrow his wrapped brow at the declaration. "No freakin' way. I guess the pirates tried to come aboard after all."

From off-screen behind the pilot, an enthusiastic voice sounded off over the transmission. "Hey, is 'Three' there?"

The burned Sith tensed as he found dozens of eyes fall upon him for the second time. "Yeah, I'm still here."

"I believe you said something along the lines of me not being much use? Was that it?"

The projected image expanded as another figure stepped into frame beside the pilot. Human male, mid-thirties, thin-but-protective armor beset by a heavy coat, the red vibrancy of which was lost over the blue hologram.

Asher let out a quick scoff. "Well, we assumed the pirates weren't stupid enough to try and come aboard, but obviously-"

"They didn't," the Sith on the holoterminal stated, calm, polite, and without an ounce of spite.

"What?"

"Oh, they were cutting into our hull from the outside," the Sith explained. "So I had to go out there and meet them."

"Impressive," Fay spoke up.

"Now that's an unfamiliar voice," said Executor One. "Who might you be?"

The tall woman looked to her fellows. "What did we decide I was? Executor Four?"

"Well, you _certainly_ don't sound like Jeren," the Sith on the comm offered with a playful chuckle.

"The name's Fay. The catty one is Asher," the tall woman revealed. The burned Sith's eyes sharpened as he cast a harsh glare up toward his comrade.

"And I'm Graves," the scarred man spoke up, awkwardly out of sync with the conversation.

"And he's Graves," Fay repeated.

"I take you're all the newest Sith to join our organization?" said Executor One.

"You got it," Fay plainly replied.

The polite Sith released another chuckle. "Ah, well, the name's Vai Thorel. I'm sure we'll get the chance to meet in person soon. But for now, we still have some systems we need to get back-"

"Whoa, hey," Asher interrupted. "Is it me, or are we glossing over the fact that you somehow dispatched a group of pirates outside your ship?"

"Well, lightsabers work in a vacuum," Thorel calmly explained.

"Yeah, but people _don't_."

"It's not that outrageous," said Fay. "Exposure is only dangerous in certain areas after a certain period of time. Breathing isn't a concern for a sufficiently trained Sith. One can overcome zero-gravity. The biggest hazard would be pressure."

"Nothing a full-body Force-barrier couldn't handle," Thorel playfully stated. "Though there might have been some light boiling around my eyes… or maybe it was freezing. I don't know, it all happened rather quickly."

"Is that being humble or bragging? I can't tell," Asher muttered.

"It's impressive either way," Fay stated.

"I'll take your word for it," Graves added. "You don't seem the type easily impressed."

"Experiment with the Force like I have, and you'll see the skill required in certain applications," said Fay.

"Um.. excuse me, my lords," a woman interrupted. The datapad-wielding officer had taken her position directly in front of the holoterminal, the other officers crowding around her. "But if we could get an official status report, I would appreciate it."

Thorel's image offered a respectful dip of its head. "Sorry. We're still recovering from the initial hit we took. We're getting the systems back online one by one, but it'll take a while before we're ready to move out."

"Are you in danger of any more attacks?" the female officer asked.

"No. Well, not here at least," Thorel declared. "You never know where pirates might pop up down the road, but I should be able to handle them too."

"Showoff," Asher grumbled.

"Thank you, X1," the woman offered with a deep bow. "Did your cargo sustain any damage?"

"Everything looks intact," Thorel stated.

"What were you hauling?" Graves asked.

The holographic figure shrugged. "Don't know. Crates? It's just my job to protect it."

Asher arched his brow to the fullest. "You jumped out of an airlock, and you don't even know what for?"

"Oh, I know exactly what for," Thorel replied. "It's my job."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure all the Imperials are swooning for you right now."

"You were the one fretting over whether you looked stupid or menacing to them," Fay muttered under her breath.

"I wasn't fretting," Asher growled, also under his breath.

"Well, look, these engines aren't going to fix themselves, so we'd better get to it," Thorel declared.

"If you'd like, we could dispatch a repair vessel to your location," the Imperial woman suggested.

"We've got it handled," said Thorel. "You can go back to worrying about X2 and the newbies."

"Who are you calling a-" Asher managed to get out before the image faded and the communications ceased. Cut off from his intended target, the burned Sith could only stew in his frustration, releasing the occasional wordless grunt.

"Please don't tell me you're going to be picking fights with the other employees," Fay muttered, arms as crossed as they could be.

"He started it," Asher grumbled.

"Tell me. Tell me how he started it," Fay pressed.

Asher's eyes sharpened as the burned Sith once more cast his harsh gaze up toward his comrade.

"I would advise caution when dealing with the other Executor, Asher," Graves calmly offered.

"And why is that?"

"Think about it," Graves suggested. "We're three Sith. We were grouped together to achieve maximum effectiveness."

"'So?"

"So… what kind of powerhouse do you suppose you have to be to be sent out alone?" Graves asked.

"We're different. We're special," said Asher.

"Still. He was the first. The first person Syrosk picked. The first person to be considered and approved by Darth Vowrawn. That's got to account for something."

"Also, he's an _ally_," Fay explained, as if stating the obvious. "I don't know, maybe that should be reason enough not to antagonize someone."

The burned man offered a quick shrug of his shoulder, to which the tall woman released a low sigh.

"How do you think they know each other?" Graves asked.

"What do you mean?" Fay replied.

"Well, if we assume we were Vowrawn's picks for the Executors, and Vai was one of Syrosk's… what do you suppose their relationship was before all this was set up. An alien Sith Lord and a… well, I guess we don't know his rank, but he seems like a rather powerful Sith. And oddly polite."

"He wasn't polite to me," Asher muttered.

"Who could be?" Fay asked.

Asher offered a quick shrug as he crossed his arms. "Whatever, I'm sure it's a boring story anyways..."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

There was an awkward silence as Syrosk and Nami soared through the Kaas City skyline. As the young girl calmed herself, she expected the elder Sith to speak up, but found him oddly quiet, stewing in his own thoughts. Scratching his chin, it would be a few long moments before he broke the silence.

"When I was a child, I lived on the streets of Kaas City. Alone," Syrosk explained. "I knew nothing of who I was or how I got here, having no memories of my life prior. I lived in back alleys, hiding from the public. But one day, a Sith Lord found me."

"And then what happened?" Nami asked, suitably interested.

"He made me his apprentice, right then and there," said Syrosk. "Eschewed the system and traditions. Took the risk."

"Why would he do that?" Nami bluntly asked. The alien turned his head, shooting the girl a sharp arch of his brow. The young Human recoiled from the glance, hanging her head low.

Syrosk released a quick chortle. "A valid question. One I asked myself constantly. I was an amnesiac alien in the heart of the Empire's capital. Any other Imperial, any other Sith, they would have had me killed. But Omnus, he saw something more than just a blight. He recognized my talents, my skills, my potential. And so he trained me, to be a Seer, like him."

"A Seer? I didn't know the Sith had those," Nami admitted.

"It's not a formal designation," Syrosk stated. "But he helped me hone my natural affinity for telepathy and precognition. He was a recruiter for the Academies, finding Force-sensitives that slipped through the cracks because they didn't even realize they were Force-sensitives. He was training me to not only follow in his footsteps, but surpass him."

"And did you?"

"Yes," Syrosk declared. "I became a Seer, and I used my talents to fill the Academies just as he had. And though I may have stopped being a recruiter long ago, I still work to improve the Sith and the Empire to this day."

"But… why serve people who look down on you just because of your species?"

"Because… here, I get to decide the kind of person I am," Syrosk rasped. "You need to realize that no matter where you go in this galaxy, there will always be someone willing to hate you."

"Yeah… I know," Nami softly admitted.

"But here, you've an opportunity to rise above your station if you put in the effort. No one controls you but you. Others may try to manipulate you, influence you, block your path, but you are ultimately responsible for your own fate."

"Is that worth the disrespect? The pain? The hardship?" Nami muttered.

"That which goes unchallenged grows weak," Syrosk plainly stated.

The girl lifted her gaze, staring longingly across the Kaas City skyline. "I… I don't want to be weak."

"Then you might make it as a Sith after all," Syrosk declared. The girl looked to the Executor, finding an odd glint in his eyes. The face surrounding them was still the rough, scowling visage she was used to, but there was something more. Beneath the grit, beneath the hate, beneath the darkness, there was a genuineness. A care, not wholly selfish.

The taxi began to slow and descend as it neared its drop off point. The speeder settled down near more of its kind, and the Jedi and Sith stepped onto the streets of Kaas City. Steeling herself, Nami drew in careful breaths, wiping the signs of previous troubles from her face.

Wasting not a moment, Syrosk began to move out, taking his first step toward the grand structure before them. A starport.

The young girl gazed up at the simple yet impressive building. Eclipsed by the spires circling it, the wide structure blended in with its surroundings, its muted materials doing nothing to stand out from its neighbors. Squads of soldiers patrolled the starport much as they did every other street in the capital, and two large battle droids flanked the entrance ahead.

"Keep up," Syrosk rasped as he journeyed toward the building.

"Do you… have a ship?" Nami asked, easily matching the alien's pace.

"I've more ships than I know what to do with," he muttered.

A short ramp greeted the two travelers prior to the personnel entrance, as did two mechanical guards. Standing on a trio of thick struts rather than a pair of legs, the machines were little more than mobile turrets passing their discerning electronic gaze over those who passed before them. With large cannons in place of hands, the battle droids were more than capable of vaporizing unauthorized personnel or contraband.

As the Jedi and Sith neared the starport's entrance, the metallic sentinels pivoted upon their waists, slowly rotating in tandem with the pair's movements. With each step, Nami could feel the harsh red glow of the droids' eyes beating down on her. Dipping her head, she moved as close to the Sith as possible, walking in his shadow.

Syrosk, meanwhile, paid them no mind, continuing his trek without a second thought. Passing through the building's threshold, the young girl thought herself free from the public eye, but soon found herself mistaken. Moving through a series of winding corridors, the pair found themselves in a monitoring station, a grand room of flight officers and coordinators overseeing the comings and goings of every freighter and shuttle that passed through.

As the pair came into view, the Imperials occupying the chamber momentarily shifted their gazes away from their instruments. Syrosk raised a quick and calm hand, and the staff immediately returned to their duties. Approaching a nearby desk, the elder Sith stood before a seated Human, the only one who hadn't noticed his arrival.

"I need to know of any shuttles leaving for Ziost," Syrosk declared. Tearing his gaze away from the small monitors at his station, the inattentive young Human looked up, seeing only the horned head peaking above the counter. Studying the alien visage before him, the young Imperial offered the stern arch of his brow.

"Are you sure you're allowed to be here?" the man snidely asked. The Sith reciprocated the Human's arched brow, offering one far more cutting. The sound of boots scampering against the cold tile rang out as another officer scurried behind the desk. Older, the other Human shoved his seated fellow aside, taking his place before the Sith.

"My sincerest apologies, my lord," the Imperial stammered. "He's new, a recent transfer, he didn't know-"

"It is of no trouble," Syrosk rasped.

"Thank you, my lord," the elder Human said with a bow of his head, before shooting a sharp glare toward his subordinate. The younger one slinked away, his head hung in shame. As the elder Imperial returned to his forward gaze, he spotted the top of the young girl's head peaking above the counter. Leaning forward, the uniformed official saw the gentle figure standing at the Sith's side. "We weren't expecting you, Executor. Should we have prepared a third hangar? We didn't receive word-"

"No, I simply require transportation to Ziost for me and my student," Syrosk explained.

"I… of course, my lord," the Imperial dutifully said. Pouring his eyes over the small monitors in front of him, the Human scanned the various upcoming departures. "I see a shuttle leaving in an hour. Everything's prepped and ready, so I should be able to expedite the departure for you."

"That will be fine," Syrosk declared. "Thank you, officer."

"It's my pleasure, my lord," the Imperial confidently stated. "The shuttle is in hangar A-7. I'll inform the pilot of your arrival."

"Come, Nami," Syrosk rasped as he stepped away from the desk. The Jedi and Sith vacated the monitoring station, departing down one of the many corridors connected to many more hangars that populated the starport.

"Why are we taking a shuttle and not one of your own ships?" asked Nami.

"We cannot afford to mismanaged perceptions and expectations at this juncture," Syrosk explained. "I don't expect you to fully understand, but this will legitimize your arrival on Ziost more than being personally ferried by a Sith Lord aboard a Sith Lord's starship."

"I… see," Nami stated, a hint on untruth to her words. "You know, that isn't how I expected things to go back there."

"How so?"

"Well, from what I know of Sith, don't your kind usually Force-choke people who disrespect you?"

"If I choked every person who disrespected me…" Syrosk began before trailing off. As he continued to walk down the starport corridor, he fell silent for a moment. "I do not believe it necessary to act on every slight. Nor do I believe it in our best interest to needlessly injure and berate those not blessed with Force-sensitivity."

"But isn't the fact that Sith are superior in every single way baked into every facet of your society?" Nami asked.

"Superiority does not necessitate constant displays and reminders," Syrosk replied. "Only those afraid of losing their grip on their subordinates resort to cultivating fear. Respect and recognition are just as powerful motivators. The best Sith give those around them something to believe in. A strive for success rather than a fear for failure."

"Are there many like that?" Nami asked.

"Yes, even amongst the more militant sects. Imperials operate on discipline, a reliable and admirable trait if there ever was one. But there are limits. Push someone past their breaking point, and they'll push back. More than a handful of Sith have been put down by a blaster bolt to the back of the head after ordering the sacrifice of their troops. To inspire loyalty, one must first inspire confidence. To inspire confidence, one must prove their effectiveness. To prove their effectiveness, one must balance selfish desires with the good of the Empire. The Sith are not beholden to the Empire like your Jedi are to the Republic. But neither can we afford to leave our citizens defenseless or downtrodden. There is give and there is take. Sometimes… Sith tend to lean more towards take. Our job will be to deter such actions."

Passing through the curved corridor, the pair saw a label near a hangar entrance. A-7.

"The shuttle should be in here," Syrosk stated, continuing his trek without pause.

Passing through the threshold of the surface hangar entrance, the pair found themselves in a well-organized, well-tended chamber holding a single vessel. The gray brick of a ship sat loftily on its landing struts, its rear engines prepped and ready, emitting their red luminescence. Folding out from its side was an entrance ramp, beside which stood a pair of black flightsuit-clad pilots. The vessel itself stood only a few meters tall and wide, far smaller than the flying domicile that was the _Fury_-class interceptor. In its hind end, however, the passenger and cargo bays would prove more than sufficient for its expected holdings.

Nearing the shuttle, the Sith and Jedi watched the two pilots snap to attention.

"My lord," one of the pilots called out, her voice electronically tinged as it passed through the all-encompassing helmet's speakers. "How might we be of service?"

"Just make your usual route to Ziost. I intend to enroll my student in the Academy."

"We'd be honored to fly you there, my lord," the copilot followed up. "The ship is ready to go when you are."

"Then let us not waste another moment," Syrosk rasped, a touch of warmth in his otherwise cold voice.

The pilots supplied a pair of confident bows of their heads before stepping onto the shuttle, disappearing into the cramped innards. The Jedi and Sith followed soon afterward, taking their place in the passenger bay. Empty, the travelers had their pick of seats from either of the two rows that hugged the inner hull. Syrosk sat himself down in one of the many unoccupied chairs, his student taking her place in the one adjacent to him. They patiently waited as they heard sounds of the shuttle coming to life.

As the engines roared, the ship offered a quick shake as it lifted itself from its struts and made its way out of the hangar. Passing through the chamber's magnetic barrier, the shuttle transitioned into the main airway that the other hangars circled around. Moving in sync with directions from the starport's monitoring station, the vessel lifted itself higher into the air, unburdened by contestation from other starships.

Soon, the shuttle was passing through the planet's dark and crackling atmosphere, well on its way into the vacuum of space.

"So… what's Ziost like?" asked Nami.

"Cold," Syrosk bluntly stated. "I'd say it's similar to Korriban, but I doubt you're familiar with Korriban so… I'll just stick with cold."

"Oh. Are you sure I shouldn't have changed clothes?" Nami asked.

"You'll receive a new set of robes when you're admitted to the Academy," Syrosk explained.

"But what about before I'm admitted?"

"Just consider enduring the cold your first trial."

The pair fell silent. Journeying beyond Dromund Kaas' gravity well, the shuttle pilots plotted their course and made the jump to hyperspace. Traveling faster than the speed of the light, the trip through Imperial space would still take some time. Time spent in relative silence.

Nami still possessed so many more questions. About the Sith. About the Empire. About her future. But she hesitated to disrupt the quiet. As much as she had come to grow comfortable around the harsh alien, she did not want to test his hospitality. He was still the growling Sith that had accepted her only after numerous protests.

And so the pair waited patiently for the vessel to arrive at its destination. Syrosk enjoyed the silence, drawing relaxed breaths within the empty, yet still somehow cramped, passenger bay.

As the Sith sat beside his student, he cautiously reached out with his mind, stealthily trying to glean whatever information he could from the peculiar girl. But still he found her mind an unassailable fortress, only the most surface-level emotions able to be read. Luckily, the girl had calmed since her earlier exasperations. Syrosk recognized the potential in her. The potential for passion. The potential for strength. A potential that frightened as much as enticed. He had seen countless acolytes and apprentices walk the halls of the Korriban Academy. He had seen countless younglings prior to their admission during his time as a recruiter. But this girl was wholly unique. And not simply because she had been a Jedi. The Sith considered himself a master of the mind. To encounter something he did not fully understand disturbed him deeply.

Looking to his student, the alien saw her slightly slumped in her seat, seemingly napping. Despite having spent much of her recent visit to Dromund Kaas unconscious, the girl was still physically and mentally exhausted. It was odd, sharing the space with someone so peaceful. He only hoped that when she awoke, it was Nami that would be sitting beside him.

His hopes were realized as the shuttle dropped out of hyperspace and the girl was shaken awake. The same reserved, quiet girl he had boarded with stirred in her seat as the vessel made its way toward Ziost's surface. As the shuttle touched down, it did so amongst similar circumstances as its point of origin, guiding itself into a hangar of a Logistics operated starport.

"Come on," said Syrosk as the shuttle's hatch opened. Nami quickly rose from her seat, following the Sith out onto the hangar floor. The pair were surrounded by familiar surroundings, the interior of the starport resembling its Kaas counterpart in just about every facet, signifying a uniformity that extended beyond the nation's capital.

The pair made their way toward the hangar exit, Syrosk once again setting the pace.

"So, where are we going?" Nami asked.

"We're going to visit some of my former apprentices," Syrosk replied. "They're instructors at the Academy here. They're going to help you prepare for your trials ahead. Or rather, we're going to ask for their help. There's really no guarantee they'll agree to lend a hand."

"I see…" Nami muttered, a heavy trepidation in her voice. "What are they like?"

As the Sith continued his march, he did so in silence. The young girl awaited an answer, but none came. She thought he was being unforthcoming, but in truth, Syrosk didn't know quite how to describe them, even after serving as their master for years.

* * *

What should have been a simple walk from the starport was rendered bothersome by the constant winds that buffeted the pair as they ventured toward the outskirts of the city. At least, bothersome for one. Whilst the girl shielded her face from the air's icy flakes, Syrosk marched undeterred.

The wintery settlement that surrounded them possessed a gray malaise. It was a place of blocks stacked amongst blocks, the familiar architecture of Kaas City presenting itself, albeit with a covering of frost and snow. The streets and paths were bare, Imperials and Sith alike seeking the bastion of internal dwellings. Structures rose tall and stretched wide, but none drew particular notice. The place was plain, as plain as an Imperial world could be. Military and logistics offices dotted the landscape. The Sith's sacred institution of learning sat high on the horizon, upon one of the planet's numerous icy peaks. Aerial defense batteries lined the countless ridges, perpetually setting their barrels toward the sky as icicles hung from their tips. The thick cloud cover masked not only the midday sun, but the numerous vessels that soared overheard carrying citizens to and fro.

As a whole, the place lacked the grandeur of its brothers. It was one of three worlds the Sith Empire could call their ancient homeworld, but it was content to be a place of purpose rather than presentation. There was no blatant reflection of the dark. No perpetual storms of lightning. No jungles filled with harrowing beasts. Just a constant chill, and the ever present sense of order that surrounded any settlement of Imperial make.

Reaching the end of their journey, Nami and Syrosk found themselves standing in front of a quaint domicile built into the base of a high ridge. First, a knock on the door. Then, a wait. Second after second passed, forcing the young girl to rub her hands in an attempt to stay warm. The Sith, meanwhile, remained motionless, braving the cold without any apparent effort. The simple metal abode inlayed in the frosted, gray stone remained stilled, no signs of life emanating from within, until finally the singular door swung open.

Stepping into view were two figures fighting for dominance in the doorframe, unable to properly accommodate both of their masses. One, a reptilian humanoid rivaling Fay in height. The second, a noseless, leathery humanoid of average height and build. A Trandoshan and a Nikto.

Syrosk passed his calm gaze between the two aliens. Between his former apprentices. "Nesk. Vurt."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter ****Sixteen**

There was a sharp clattering in the adjacent room as Syrosk and Nami sat on a constricting couch. The room they found themselves in was dark, utterly unadorned, and cold even by Imperial standards. Across from them, the Nikto had taken his seat within a simplistic armchair, casting his calm, deadened gaze upon his guests. The younger of the two leathery, orange Sith in the room wore a face absent of emotion or expression. A fact that did nothing to lessen the growing unease in the young Jedi.

Vurt was no older than the trio of Sith that had taken her in, but his species' rough and wrinkled features forced a haggard appearance and etched a permanent scowl upon his noseless face. A fact the Nikto did nothing to rectify. Small, stubby horns sprouted from his brow and chin, but it was his eyes that would continue to hold the girl's attention. His cold, unwavering, beady eyes.

Eventually, Vurt's gaze stopped passing between the two guests, focusing solely on the young Jedi. Her hands neatly folded upon her lap, Nami struggled to keep herself still. She had escaped the outside cold, but something else forced her arms to continue trembling as shivers ran up her spine.

Breaking the tension, the Trandoshan stepped into the room, a metallic tray in his bulky, three-digit hands. Upon the platter balanced a pair of cups that clinked with every motion the intimidating Sith took, threatening to spill their contents with each step. As he set the platter down upon the table in front of his guests, the murky liquid within jostled, a few drops managing to push past the cups' rims.

Straightening his posture, the Trandoshan dominated the space of the room. But despite his size, Nesk managed to cut a sharp figure, his powerful musculature hidden beneath thick, sandy-brown scales. His hands and feet went unburdened by coverings as the rest of his body went wrapped by simplistic black robes. As Nami studied the imposing figure, she couldn't help but notice that one of his hands possessed a lighter shade of scales that the rest of his body.

"Here… drink," Nesk bluntly spoke. Whether the scaled Sith was offering a description or issuing a command, the young Jedi did not know. He spoke with a firm enough grasp of Basic, but every sound that slipped out of his snout seemed dominated by a snarling dialect.

Without a word, Syrosk reached out, taking one of the cups in his rough hands, silently urging the girl beside him to do the same. Nami grasped the small container with both hands, welcoming the touch of warmth. Bringing the black beverage toward her face, her nostrils were assaulted by a sharp, pungent odor. As Syrosk moved his cup to his leathery lips, taking a sip that could only be described as dainty, the young Jedi opted to maintain her grip at a safe distance, forcing a smile as the two other Sith continued to offer their beady stares. As the Nikto continued to sit, Nesk opted to stand at his side.

"Syrosk," the Trandoshan muttered.

"Nesk," the Sith Lord replied.

"How is the leg?" Nesk asked.

"Serviceable," Syrosk declared. "How's the hand?"

Nesk raised his right hand, the one possessing a lighter shade of scales compared to the rest of his body. "Regenerated."

"That's good to hear," Syrosk offered, taking another sip of his drink.

"Why has it come here?" Nesk asked.

Syrosk pulled the cup away from his lips, everything about him steady, if not sluggish. The silence hung heavy for the moment as the elder Sith waited to respond. "I need your help. The both of you."

The Trandoshan and Nikto looked to one another, before reaffirming their gaze upon their former master.

"With what?" asked Nesk.

"With her," Syrosk replied. The two Sith turned, casting their gaze on the girl who was doing everything she could to keep from squirming. "She's to become a Sith. My new apprentice. She's entering the Ziost Academy directly into the hands of an Overseer, competing with other acolytes, but I'd still like you to offer some prior instruction."

Nesk refused to tear his gaze away from the girl. "Why? Is it weak?"

"No. But she is a… special case," Syrosk calmly stated.

"How so?" Nesk asked.

"She is a former Jedi," said Syrosk. Another chill shot up the girl's spine as she felt the Sith reaffirming their gazes. As unexpressive as the rough pair were, it became plainly obvious that they were capable of arching their brows. "As expedited as her training will be, I intend for it to fulfill every standard of the Order. When she becomes Sith, there cannot be room to dispute her."

"But it still seeks an advantage?" Nesk asked, turning back toward his former master.

"I merely seek to offset the disadvantage of being a Jedi amongst Sith," Syrosk replied. "If she has truly turned her back on her former Order, then I'd not see her efforts here disrupted. She needs to spend as little time in the Academy as possible, whilst still being able to say she graduated the Academy."

The Trandoshan began scratching his chin, the sounds of claws against rough scales filling the room. "How long until it is given to Overseer?"

"No more than a week," Syrosk replied.

"Cannot do much with one week," Nesk admitted.

"She's already more skilled than your typical acolyte," Syrosk said. "I just need you two to give her some conditioning. Making sure her skills can be utilized in an Academy setting."

"Why make it compete with others?" asked Nesk. "Is possible for Overseer to judge single acolyte for Sith Lord."

"She'd break under the scrutiny. Any Overseer given a Jedi to test would do everything in their power to keep them from becoming an apprentice, especially to a Sith Lord of my caliber."

The Trandoshan released an unsure groan. "Why not just give it to Lorrik?"

"As many liberties as we're taking with the system, we still abide by its rules. I need this to appear as legitimate as realistically possible," Syrosk admitted. "You two are instructors. You can train her here without drawing notice. Were she to associate with someone like Lorrik, we'd both have inquisitors from Philosophy breathing down our necks."

"Is it worth the trouble?" Nesk asked, shooting a quick, but sharp, glare toward the young Jedi.

Syrosk turned toward the girl, who looked to him with wide-eyes. "That remains to be seen." Nami's head dipped. The warmth that once graced her hands was slowly fading, the cup's contents adapting to room temperature. "But, nonetheless, she deserves this chance, I suppose."

A gentle smile graced the girl's lips. Meanwhile, the two Sith across from her turned to one another, sharing a series of silent looks. Eventually, a soft groan emanated from the Trandoshan's snarly mouth. "Fine. If it wants a new apprentice, it will have a new apprentice. Owe it that much."

Syrosk offered a polite dip of his horned head. "I appreciate it. And I won't forget this."

"Knows it won't," Nesk muttered, stepping away from the gathering. As the Trandoshan disappeared deeper into the dwelling, the remaining three figures were left with the heavy silence.

"Is… is that it?" Nami whispered, leaning in close to the elder Sith. "Just like that?"

"As needlessly complicated Sith affairs can be at times, they can often be rather simple," Syrosk replied. "A fact that is neither good nor bad."

As Nami dwelt on the Sith Lord's words, she couldn't help but still feel the sting of the Nikto's cold, enduring glare. "Does that one ever speak?"

"Not often, no," Syrosk plainly stated, voice absent of judgment. "But he'll prove an effective tutor, as will Nesk."

"Is there much they can do with a week?" asked Nami.

"You'd be surprised," Syrosk admitted. "They may be tougher on you than the Overseer."

"I thought the entire point of this was because an Overseer might be too hard on me," Nami softly said.

"The entire point of this was fairness. I'd see you rightfully judged. That does not mean I'd see you untested. If you want to be a Sith, you still must prove yourself. I just know that these two will treat you fairly. Harshly, but fairly."

Another distant sound of jostling metals echoed through the dwelling, but this time, it did not come from the kitchen. Emerging from a shadowed corridor, Nesk stepped into the view of his guests. Two full length blades lay strapped upon his back, utterly black and utterly sharp. Accompanying the dueling swords, a long rucksack was held over the Trandoshan's shoulder, a unknown collection of solid materials resting within.

"Its training begins now. Come," Nesk quickly spoke up, thrusting his head toward the door.

"What? Like, _right_ now?" Nami muttered.

"It has only a week. Maybe less. No time to waste," Nesk bluntly explained. "If it wants to be Sith, it must learn Sith ways. Come."

The young Jedi turned to the elder Sith, who offered only a dismissive shrug. "I'd listen to him if I were you."

Nami set her cup on the tray in front of her, still filled to the brim, its contents untouched. The girl carefully stepped away from the seated Sith, moving toward the Trandoshan. Standing at his side, she couldn't help but stand in the imposing figure's shadow. Having already basked in the presence of Fay, Nami was used to height discrepancies, but Nesk possessed a far-different aura about him. Whereas the woman she had met exuded a calm, collected countenance, the Trandoshan's apparent calm seemed only a facade. A fiery passion rest beneath his eyes, beneath his scales, one that wanted nothing more than to be released.

Nesk approached the home's entrance, inviting a brisk chill as he opened the door. The girl turned back to the elder Sith, but he offered nothing. His expression blank, his eyes cold, Syrosk seemed to purposely offer as little as he could that might make the girl want to stay. Without protest, Nami followed her new instructor out into the cold of Ziost's exterior, unsure of her destination or fate.

As the door resealed, the two silent Sith remained sitting in the quaint dwelling's central room. Syrosk and Vurt offered each other their own unique brand of cold, emotionless glares. Breaking the silence and stillness, the Nikto leaned forward, thick fingers interlocked as he rest his elbows on his thighs.

"I assume there's something more to this," Vurt spoke up, almost whispering, voice utterly deep and smooth.

"There always is, isn't there?" Syrosk slowly replied, setting his cup on the tray in front of him.

"I never expected you to take another apprentice," Vurt declared.

"Neither did I," Syrosk admitted. "But I didn't have much choice in the matter."

"But you still want her to succeed," said Vurt. "If you wanted to be rid of her, you wouldn't have brought her to us."

Syrosk's head dipped as his eyes drifted toward the floor. "She is skilled and wants to become Sith. I'd not see her talent wasted because of whatever prejudices are present in the Academy and its staff."

"You've trained aliens, slaves, and now, fallen Jedi. Did you ever think to do things normally for once?"

"That's what I thought I'd be doing with Logistics," Syrosk muttered, before a pause. "It would seem even there I cannot escape the peculiar. Even discounting the girl, the other Sith I'm overseeing are anything but normal."

"You know, you never told us her name," Vurt stated.

"I guess I didn't," Syrosk replied, leaving it at that.

The Nikto sharpened his gaze as he stared at his former master. "What aren't you telling us about her?"

"A great many things," Syrosk whispered. Without another word, the elder Sith rose from his seat and stepped toward the home's entrance. The Nikto remained seated, barely turning his neck toward the exiting Sith. As Syrosk stood at the door, he paused, hand hovering over the nearby controls. "I'll stay in contact."

"We'll call if she dies," Vurt bluntly said, not even facing the exiting Sith Lord.

With that, the exchange was over. Syrosk stepped into the cold exterior of Ziost. In the distance, the Sith Lord could see the Nami and Nesk growing smaller and smaller on the horizon. Walking a path of cracked stone, the motley pair journeyed out into the wilderness, toward the lands untouched by civilization, toward the veil of wind and fog. Wherever their destination, it did not involve the local Academy.

Leaving the domicile of his former apprentices, Syrosk set out back toward the nearby starport. The cold wind continuing to kick the tail of the Sith Lord's black coat, he pressed forward, intent on returning to Dromund Kaas.

* * *

Time passed. Hour after hour came and went in silence. Syrosk traversed the lines of transportation, briefly interacting with the Logistics workers whom operated along his path. Boarding a shuttle, he sat alone in a constrictive passenger bay as the vessel traversed the atmosphere, the stars, and hyperspace. On route to his base, Syrosk had only his thoughts with him. Thoughts that turned to the girl he had left on Ziost. Thoughts that turned toward the future. There were countless possibilities. Countless outcomes. Many of which he knew he had no hand in influencing. Soon, the system would take hold. The infallible system. The system he willingly submitted to following the war's end.

Oddly uplifting, was the thought. And yet, it was simultaneously burdensome. He had let go. The matter was out of his hands. Whatever happened, happened. Matters were left to fate. And yet, they weren't. They were left to each individual. They were left to him, to Nami, to Nesk and Vurt, to the Overseers, to Vowrawn. If he relinquished control, someone else would assume it. And that same truth existed in every other facet of his life. Of every Sith's life.

Eventually, the shuttle ferrying Syrosk touched down amidst the familiar capital after hours upon hours of travel. Beneath the darkened and crackling skies. Amidst spires and monuments to the glory of the Empire. How long it had been since his original departure, he did not know. How long it had been since he last slept, he did not know. Dromund Kaas had finished at least one rotation in his absence, during which, the gears of bureaucracy had turned without him. Logistics continued to operate. The Empire continued to exist. Little was forced to change or adapt to the missing Executor.

Emerging from the gray shuttle, Syrosk offered an appreciative nod to the bowing pilots before making his way through the hangar. Like clockwork the starport operated, the Sith Lord the lone piece of dust drifting between the cogs of the machine. Ascending the lift out of the hangar, Syrosk drew a heavy breath, wondering what awaited back at the Citadel. Part of him wished for everything to be operating at its peak. And yet, another wanted something to be amiss, some measure to validate his continued presence there.

Stepping off the lift, the Sith Lord trudged along the curved walkway that made up the starport's main surface corridor. Passing branch after branch, lift after lift, Syrosk paid no mind to the various movements and operations of technicians and administrators. That is, until he noticed a peculiar amount of activity surrounding one of the cargo elevators. The one he knew led to the hangar belonging to Asher, Fay, and Graves.

A repulsor-assisted loader carried crate upon crate onto the lift. The boxy containers differed in size, but all bared the labels of Production and Logistics.

Taking another step toward the lift, an overseeing Imperial wielding a datapad took notice of Syrosk's approach.

"My lord," the Imperial shot off, straightening his posture. "This is the last of the supplies you've requested."

Syrosk paused, passing his gaze between the Logistics officer and the bundle of crates. After letting the silence hang for a few moments, the Executor finally spoke. "I see. Thank you."

The Imperial offered an appreciative nod before hastily stepping onto the industrial lift. Before he could descend, the Sith Lord followed, taking his position beside the assemblage of stacked crates atop the hovering loader. The officer bit his lip as he buried his face in the datapad, keeping silent as he urged the lift downward.

As the lift came to a stop, the Executor was granted sight into a bustling hangar. In its center, a _Fury_-class interceptor sat, being tended by an abnormally large group. Imperials garbed in work clothes carted crates up and down the vessel's lowered entrance ramp, full boxes going in, empty ones coming out. Meanwhile, three figures stood out from the rest, standing watch over the entire proceedings. Syrosk stepped off the lift, an unusual haste to his otherwise sluggish advance.

Near the parked interceptor, three Sith watched as the starport workers carted supplies onto their ship.

"Alright," Asher called out, to no one in particular. "We don't exactly know what sort of timetable we're working with, but let's get this done, people. Remember, these requests come all the way from a Dark Councilor."

"They do, do they?" a chilled rasp emanated from behind the wrapped Sith. Asher jumped, spinning on his heels to find the cold stare of his boss planted directly on him.

"Syrosk! You're back. How's things?" Asher asked in his most diplomatic tone.

"I do hope you're not going to make me ask for an explanation," Syrosk plainly stated.

"Well, we figured the ship needed some renovations, especially with a fourth joining our team," Asher explained, trying to maintain his calm. "I mean, have you seen what passes for sanitary fixtures on a stock Imperial vessel? We just made a few requests to better serve the organization."

"He uses the word 'we' very loosely," Fay bluntly said. "This was practically all his idea."

The burned Sith snapped toward the tall woman. "Wow, just throw me under the shuttle, why don't you?"

"If I wanted, I could literally do so," Fay replied, maintaining her stoic demeanor.

Behind the Sith Lord, the loader carrying the last batch of supplies came to a stop alongside its attendant, who kept his gaze lowered in the presence of the four powerful figures.

"Excuse me, my lords, but where do you want us to put the exercise equipment?" the Imperial sheepishly spoke up, almost afraid to bother the four Sith.

"The left wing is fine for now," Fay politely offered. Without another word, the Imperial ducked away, bringing the loader with him. As the man slipped away, the other three Sith looked to the tall woman. "Alright, it was only _mostly_ his idea."

A low grumble slipped past Syrosk's lips as he rubbed his brow.

"How did things go on Ziost?" Graves spoke up, changing the subject.

"As well as expected," Syrosk admitted. "Nami's in the hands of my former apprentices. They'll prepare her for her trials in the Academy."

"What do we do until she graduates?" asked Fay.

"The same thing we were going to do prior to you bringing home a wayward Jedi. Work," Syrosk rasped. "Now come on, we've wasted enough time."

The Executor quickly turned on his heels and began making his way back toward the lift, his underlings following soon after.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

The world was a gray haze.

The air was thick with an icy fog, suffocating the light provided by Ziost's sun. The wind carried flakes of snow that stung the flesh, until it would inevitably become numb. In the throes of a harsh winter, the planet punished any who strayed beyond the protection of its settlements. But there were those who would voluntarily brave the unforgiving wastes. For there was strength to be found there. To be earned there.

Two figures marched across the frozen wasteland, feet sinking beneath the top layer of snow, robes fluttering under the constant barrage of wind. Ziost was home to every manner of Imperial influence. Government offices were stacked upon each other, surrounded by their urban kin. Military bases dotted the landscape, testing the mettle of soldiers amidst the unforgiving climate. Tombs stretched high and low, carved from the frozen stone countless generations ago. The Academy stood atop its lofty peak, casting its shadow over the surrounding grounds.

But the two figures had need for none of that. In whatever direction the Empire's roots on the planet spread, they moved toward the opposite. They had no interest in what the Empire could provide. They sought gains from the emptiness.

Nesk led the way through the haze, stomping across the gray flatlands with nothing to guide his path. He followed no maps. No beacons. Only the knowledge that rest firmly in his own mind. Trailing the Trandoshan, Nami struggled to keep up with her indomitable instructor. She had nothing but the robes upon her back, and the lightsaber clipped to her belt. She trudged, panning her gaze as she struggled to maintain the feeling in her extremities. In all directions, all she could see was fog. Turning back, she could only see a brief series of footprints before they were consumed by the gray haze. No mountains sprouting from the horizon. No hints of the city they had left behind. Returning her gaze forward, the girl saw only the faint silhouette of the large Sith ahead. With a shivered curse, the Jedi pushed herself forward, eager to catch up.

There hadn't been a word exchanged between the pair since their departure from Nesk's home. Since leaving Syrosk's side, Nami had thought to ask a question. Where were they going? How much further would they have to walk? What were they going to do once they got there? But she decided it was folly. No answer could possibly sate her curiosity. If anything, it would only prove disheartening.

As the girl mindlessly pressed forward, she constricted her frame, hands constantly rubbing her arms in an attempt to stay warm. She bundled into herself, forcing her sleeves past her fingers, keeping her head concealed beneath her hood before the wind would inevitably blow the brown cloth backward. Her only concern was staying warm. A concern that dominated her so much that she didn't even notice her instructor stop.

With an inaudible thud, the girl walked into the back of Nesk, colliding with the wrapped bundle of supplies he wore upon his back. Nami stumbled backwards, whilst the Trandoshan refused to budge in the slightest. The girl shook her head, trying to regain her composure.

"Are we… are we here?" Nami asked, lips quivering and numb.

"Yes," Nesk plainly stated. As the Trandoshan kept his eye glued to the forward horizon, the Jedi moved around his side. Just as she was about to take another step, she found a firm, clawed hand clutching at her shoulder. The girl paused as her eyes grew incredibly wide, only now seeing what lay ahead.

Beneath the fog, the flatlands that seemed to stretch into infinity had come to an abrupt stop. Only a few steps in front of the pair, there was a shear drop into a sharp, unforgiving abyss. The fissure stretched to the left and right, its extremities fading beneath the gray haze

As the Trandoshan released his grip on the girl's shoulder, Nami took a couple of careful steps back. Nesk, meanwhile, quickly slipped the long rucksack over his shoulder, letting it fall to his feet. The heavy bag sunk into the snow, rattling with a series of metallic clanks.

"Now, we train," Nesk declared.

"How?" Nami softly asked.

"We fight," Nesk plainly answered. "Does it have a lightsaber?"

"Yes."

"Give it."

The girl reached beneath her robes, returning with a simple gray hilt in her hand. The Trandoshan held out his palm, his motions rigid and unshaken by the surrounding cold. Nami complied, placing the metallic cylinder in her instructor's large hand. Nesk clenched his grip, turning the weapon over to examine its every facet and curve.

Without warning, the Trandoshan pulled his arm back before tossing the lightsaber with a powerful throw. In a matter of moments, the weapon disappeared into the rocky fissure, falling into the darkness below. All Nami could do was stare, mouth agape.

"Is Jedi thing. It doesn't need Jedi things," Nesk declared.

"Did you have to… throw it over a cliff?" Nami muttered.

"No ties to old life. Only new one. Besides, cannot enter Academy with lightsaber. Too dangerous," Nesk explained. "Cannot appear too strong. Be strong on inside. Not outside."

"So how are we… supposed to train?" Nami asked.

The Trandoshan lowered himself to the ground, knee digging into the snow. Opening the rucksack, the instructor revealed two metallic rods the length of an activated lightsaber. Unlike the training sabers the Jedi was familiar with, they were simplistic, unshaped and without energy arrays.

Wrapping his clawed digits around one of the rods, Nesk picked up the simple tool and tossed it toward the girl's feet. Nami jumped when the piece of metal slammed into the ground, leaving a perfect imprint in the snow as it collided with the stone beneath with a loud thud. Reaching down, the Jedi wrapped her cold fingers around one of the rod's end, only to find herself incapable of lifting it with a single hand. Reinforcing her grip with her other hand, the girl released a soft groan as she picked one of the ends into the air, the other still sufficiently dug into the snow.

"What the heck is this thing made of? Durasteel?" Nami muttered as she managed to lift one end of the rod past her waist.

"No. Durasteel not heavy enough," Nesk plainly stated. The girl looked up to see the Trandoshan palming the second of the rods he had packed. In one, swift motion, he single-handedly lifted the rod into the air, before resting its length against his shoulder. With his two dueling swords still strapped to his back, the instructor was a curious sight as he effortlessly wielded the blunt weapon. For better or worse, he had no intention of slicing up his newest student.

"Is this what Sith use as training sabers?" Nami asked, slowly raising the tip of her rounded bar off the ground.

"Not Sith. Just Nesk. Training sabers not put fear of blade into it."

"I already know what happens… when you touch a lightsaber," Nami declared, almost offended. "Is this really necessary?"

"Was Jedi learning. Only Sith learning from now on," Nesk replied.

The girl released a grunt as she raised her rod upright, struggling to keep it balanced within her grip. "Getting hit with this… could still kill someone. Why not just use a lightsaber… if the end result is the same?"

"Is easy to swing lightsaber. Should take effort. It is still soft thing. If it can swing that, it will be ready to continue," Nesk explained.

"Okay, but-"

Before Nami could finish her thought, the Trandoshan was upon her. With a primal snarl, Nesk raised his weapon high into the air, before bringing it down with a cascading swing. The Jedi barely stepped out of the way as the heavy rod imbedded its tip into where her feet previously stood. Nami stumbled in the snow, struggling to maintain her balance alongside the heavy object in her hands. As she secured her footing, her eyes went wide as she stared at her instructor. The tip of his weapon still embedded in the ground, the subtle sounds of still-crackling stone managed to overpower those of the passing winds. All the while, the Trandoshan stood completely still, beady eyes burning a hole through the girl's psyche. Only a single hand wrapped around the rod, Nesk pulled his weapon from the ground, holding it as he would a saber as he took another step toward the student.

* * *

Back in Kaas City, Syrosk led his three underlings through the constricting halls of the Citadel back toward his home and office.

"So, we already got another mission lined up?" Asher spoke up, trailing the uneven gait of his boss.

"Not a mission," Syrosk replied. The other three Sith offered a series of arched brows. "I need to test you before you're sent back into the field."

"Is this because of Nami?" Fay asked.

"No. This was always intended to be a part of your induction into the organization," Syrosk admitted.

"Mental conditioning, right?" said Graves, recalling their initial talks with the Executor.

"Correct," Syrosk replied. "You proved yourselves capable of action when you successfully completed your first mission. Now you need to prove that your thoughts can stand up to forceful intrusions."

The group came to a stop in front of the door leading to Syrosk's dwelling.

"We don't have to lay on your weird inquisitor's slab, do we?" Asher bluntly asked.

"No." The door lifted into its recess, granting access to the dwelling. Just as the three younger Sith were about to step inside, the alien offered a halting hand. "I'll be dealing with you individually. The rest can wait outside. Now, who wants to go first?"

The three subordinates looked to one another, bouncing their gazes time and time again as silence overtook them.

Only after a few long moments was the quiet broken by the burned Sith releasing a droning sigh. "Fine. I'll go first."

"Wonderful," Syrosk rasped, completely deadpan. With that, the Sith Lord escorted Asher into his home and office, leaving Graves and Fay alone in the empty hallway. The tall woman and scarred man looked to one another, unsure of what to do. Eventually, Fay decided to leave against the nearby wall, and Graves did the same shortly after. All they could do now was wait.

Inside, the alien waved his hand toward the chair that once held an unconscious Nami. "Take a seat."

Asher complied, setting himself down. As he did, Syrosk circled around to the seat's rear, disappearing from the burned Sith's view.

"Now, close your eyes," Syrosk directed.

Once more, the Sith complied, without a fuss.

"Now, open your eyes."

Asher did so, only to find himself no longer within the Executor's domicile. No longer within the Citadel. Instead, he stood in the middle of an infinite white void. The burned Sith spun on his heels, only to see Syrosk standing behind him, the only other object occupying the vast emptiness that surrounded them. Together, they stood on some immaculate, perfect surface. Unfathomably smooth. Unfathomably clean. A thing of dreams rather than reality.

"Neat trick," Asher dismissively offered alongside a shrug of his shoulders.

The Sith Lord stood across from him, only the smallest of gaps separating them. As the alien looked up and down his subordinate, he offered a single arch of his brow.

"Curious," Syrosk rasped.

"What?"

"I thought you might have looked different," Syrosk admitted.

Asher looked down to see his torso went unclothed, but not unwrapped. The various robes and coats, the various pockets and bandoliers, they were all missing. The only thing the Human wore was a simple pair of black trousers, and the only thing covering his upper half were the all-encompassing bandages that hid his burnt flesh. Asher raised his hands, turning them over as he examined his form.

"This is the mental representation you've created for yourself," Syrosk explained. "I didn't know whether it'd be burned or not."

"Let me guess, that means something, doesn't it?" Asher asked, already knowing the answer.

"It means this is who you are. Who you want to be. This is your most satisfactory form."

"So, we're in my mind, huh?" Asher calmly said, looking around the blank void. "I thought it'd look different."

"This is but a piece of your mind. A piece I have partitioned. A piece I control," Syrosk rasped.

"Yeah, yeah, telepath. I get it," Asher dismissed. As he once more held his hands before his face, the Human's eyes went wide as he watched a budding flame blossom from his palms. The fire grew and spread, eventually traveling up his arms and dancing upon his shoulders. "Pretty cool."

"This is not a time for playing," Syrosk declared.

The other Sith offered a slight pout as he mentally extinguished the flames crawling up his body. "Alright, what are we doing, then? Am I supposed to be trying to force you out right now?"

"If you were able, it would mean putting a stop to this," Syrosk stated "You could get up, walk out, have the rest of the day to yourself."

"Fine." Without another word, the burned Sith closed his eyes and concentrated. He was a part of himself within a part of himself. He didn't know exactly how to proceed, but his trials had conditioned more than his body. The Sith looked inward, and outward, and inward again, trying to pinpoint what exactly was occurring within his mind. There was an intrusion. A foreign body. A foreign mind. There had to be a way to excise it. Devoting his energy to pushing Syrosk out of his mind, Asher gritted his teeth before exhaling the breath he had inadvertently been holding, despite the fact that he no longer needed air to function on the peculiar mindscape.

Opening his eyes, Asher could only stare as he saw himself no longer within the white void. Only, he wasn't in the Citadel either.

A cold, metallic platform stretched beneath the Sith's feet, its edges hanging over a rocky cliff. Beyond, the orange crags and skies of Korriban. As a shuttle lifted off in the distance, Asher quickly realized Syrosk no longer stood in front of him. But neither was he alone. Ahead, a figure stood out in the Sith's mind amongst the group of acolytes that surrounded him.

A teenager. Human male. Slightly diminutive height. Dark, unkempt hair. Soft, fair skin. A hooked smile upon his face. A set of gray robes wrapping his body. Murel Azer.

"I wasn't sure if your form would more resemble that," said the voice of Syrosk. Immediately turning his head, Asher saw that the alien now stood at his side, casting his cold gaze forward. "So these are your most cherished memories. Ones not of family or childhood, but of the Academy."

"I don't know if I'd call them cherished," Asher muttered.

Before his eyes, the scene shifted, wiping away only to be replaced by another. Gone was the landing platform, in its place one of the dueling circles that populated the Academy grounds. Teenagers fought one another with training sabers under the stern gaze of an instructor. Two figures were locked in combat, the larger utilizing wide, brutish swings, the smaller deftly ducking out of the way. Every time the metallic rods would meet, the energy bands running their length would spark, simulating some weak facsimile of actual lightsabers clashing.

"Why wouldn't they be?" asked Syrosk. "The Academy gave you everything you could have possibly wanted. Before Korriban, you had nothing. You received nothing in the way of admiration or love from your parents, even when they discovered you were Force-sensitive. It was expected of you. Being a Sith was literally the least you could do in their eyes. But what you never received from them, you finally found from your fellow acolytes."

Asher released a scoff and a roll of his eyes as the scene faded once again, now taking the form of the Academy's interior halls. "Oh yeah, I received tons of admiration from the other students."

"Not admiration. Attention."

In front of the pair, a lone Sith sat at his desk, a series of tools spread out in front of him. Under the light of a small lamp, the acolyte labored away, tinkering with his training saber, its casing opened and its innards on display. Circuits were rewired. Energy arrays were bolstered. Components were pushed to their limits.

The environment wiped away again, returning to the dueling circles outside the Academy. Two acolytes found themselves at each other's blade under the glare of an instructor once more. The larger combatant was unable to land a hit on the smaller foe, but neither could the shorter fighter land a direct strike. But he didn't need one. One light slash with the enhance training saber, and its target began howling in pain. A wide gash presented itself in the larger acolyte's robes, and underneath lay charred and blackened flesh.

"You knew there was little room for friendship amongst your fellow Sith," Syrosk continued. "But you weren't content with simple progression. Simple superiority. You wanted to prove yourself. You wanted to be noticed. You did everything in your power to not be forgotten."

"So what?" Asher muttered. "Obscurity doesn't get you out of the Academy. You have to get people to notice you if you want to become an apprentice."

"It wasn't those above you that you were interested in impressing though, was it?" Syrosk rasped. "This was about more than proving how skilled you were. You wanted everyone to know how smart you were. How creative you were. How unique you were. How special you were. Things a child expects to hear from their parents."

"Is the psychology lesson over yet?" Asher dismissed, crossing his arms.

Syrosk released a low chortle. "But you finally found something, didn't you? Or rather, someone."

The scene shifted, but the environment endured. Only its occupants changed. As years passed, the rock and stone of the Academy grounds remained a rigid and unforgiving constant. Its denizens, however, displayed palpable change. The Human acolyte from before had exchanged his gray robes for a darker set. Exchanged his classmates for a new batch. Exchanged his instructor for an Overseer.

Standing out from the rest, a sturdy figure. Human male. Tanned skin. Hair kept short. Face populated by an array of scratches and scars.

"You found a rival," Syrosk continued. "Someone to finally give you the attention you so desired. Someone to hate. Someone to hate you back. Someone to give more than the cold ambivalence offered by your fellow students, by your instructors, by your parents. The man you knew only as Graves."

In front of the Sith, the acolytes began to fade, one by one, until only two remained, staring one another down under the brutal Korriban sun.

"You were competing for the apprenticeship of Lord Traer. But the Sith Lord was the last thing on your mind," Syrosk rasped. "You had found someone able to keep up with you. Someone able to match you. Someone able to combat your intuitiveness with raw determination. As each of the other acolytes were eliminated, you prayed he would be the last to go. You had seen how calm he was. But as you prodded him, he gave you precisely the response you desired. He was a mirror, dishing out as much as you could put in. When the day came for Traer to choose his apprentice, there was an emptiness inside you. You knew what awaited as an apprentice. You could not test a Lord as you would a fellow acolyte. You knew how worthless you were to a superior. Traer could never give you what the Academy offered, but neither could you stay. So, you fought, ready to kill the one person with whom you shared a bond with."

Before the observing Sith, the younger versions of Asher and Graves stood opposite each other, under the watchful eyes of a cloaked Sith Lord. The dark figure stood shadowed even under the enduring light of the Korriban sun, visage concealed beneath a black hood. All that shone through was a crooked smile.

Asher and Graves drew their blades, actual lightsabers gifted to them for their final duel. The blades shined with a harsh crimson, their tips directed toward their opponent. With the drop of the Sith Lord's hand, the two charged one another, meeting with a resounding clash. Graves was the slower of the two, lashing out with sluggish, but powerful blows. Asher kept his head low, ducking and weaving around the swinging blade, darting around the dueling circle. The lighter Sith offered only cursory jabs of his blade, piercing the outer edges of his opponent's frame.

The blade's tip would pass through the other acolyte's robes, singeing the flesh beneath. But the scarred combatant continued undeterred. The two continued, dancing around one another with varying degrees of martial grace. As the duel progressed under the invested eyes of Lord Traer, he studied his potential apprentices, reveling in the display.

Despite Asher's countless jabs, he was unable to fully pierce his opponent's guard. The unarmored Graves possessed dots lining his robes, holes where his foe's saber had shallowly imbedded its tip. But the warrior was unaffected by pain. Asher thought the tiny injuries would eventually bring his opponent down, but there he stood, unwavering. Reaching toward his waist, the smaller Sith revealed a flask clipped to his belt, hidden under a flap of his robes.

In one swift motion, the Sith removed the lid with the flick of his thumb. Thrusting his free hand forward, a globule of liquid vacated the flask, flung telekinetically toward Graves. The warrior raised his guard just as his opponent offered a snap of his fingers. The liquid dispersed and ignited, surrounding Graves in an explosive fireball.

The fiery plume encircled the warrior's upper body, but was halted by the acolyte's defenses. An invisible sphere surrounded Graves, one that kept the flames at bay. The Force barrier had blocked the attack, but as the flames dissipated, the warrior found his opponent rushing toward him. His free hand extended, Graves could do nothing to prevent Asher from lopping off his left arm just below the shoulder.

As the limb fell to the hard ground, Graves stumbled backward. His other hand still wrapped around his weapon, the warrior saw no need to clutch at the cauterized wound. Instead, he remained standing, burning a hole through his opponent with his eyes. He was not beaten. Not yet.

But Asher would not allow his foe to remain standing. He reached toward the flask at his waist, emptying the remaining contents into the air. As the fuel moved between the two Sith, Asher's eyes went wide as he saw the one-armed man on the offense. He had no time to react as Graves closed the gap, swinging his crimson blade between them. The plasma ignited the fuel, engulfing the pair in a fireball. The barrier that surrounded Graves protected him. Asher was not so lucky.

The burned Sith stumbled back, his torso aflame. The surrounding air fueled the fire. The black robes provided the means to spread. Falling upon his back, he possessed not his opponent's tolerance for pain. Attempting to release a harsh yelp, the acolyte found himself choking on the fire and smoke that engulfed his upper body. Rolling upon the hard stone beneath him, Asher attempted to snuff the fire as his opponent simply stood over him, watching.

Graves was frozen. Despite his nerves offering him no feedback, his body did have its limits. He was exhausted, even if unburdened by pain. As his grip loosened, the weapon fell from his hand, deactivating at it struck the ground. The warrior fell back, colliding with hard stone with a loud thud.

Asher continued to writhe on the ground. The flames were gone, but the lingering effects were not. Blackened cloth stuck to blackened flesh. Only now could the Sith breathe. He should have collapsed. Should have expired. But something kept him going. Gone was the fair skin. Gone was the hair atop his head. All that remained was the scorched form of an enduring acolyte. Clawing at the stone beneath him, Asher clenched his fists as he attempted to rise. His arms supporting his weight, they bounced between numbness and excruciating pain. But still he rose. As screams slipped through gritted teeth, the Sith pushed himself up.

The sounds echoed throughout Asher's mind. The howls, the screams, the yells, all his, overlapping and intensifying with each passing moment, drowning out all else. Watching his scorched form lift himself up, Asher clenched his hands and teeth, shutting his eyes with all might.

Until finally, they opened.

Gone was the void. Gone was Korriban. All that stood before Asher was the quaint office of Syrosk, and the Sith Lord himself positioned in front of him. The subordinate's hands were clenched around the chair's armrests as his eyes darted across the room, his breathing quick and heavy.

Meanwhile, Syrosk appeared almost nonchalant.

"You can tell the next one to come in now."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Just as they had attained some measure of comfort, Graves and Fay saw their teammate exit Syrosk's office, his head held at a slight dip. Pausing, Asher offered a few rapid blinks as a shiver ran up his spine. Finally, his shoulders drooped as a low sigh slipped past his lips.

"Something wrong?" Graves asked.

Asher perked up, immediately straightening out his stance before releasing his blathering reply. "What? Wrong? No. Nothing's wrong. Why? What makes you say that?"

"Well, the fact that you were only in there a few seconds," Graves said.

"A few seconds?" Asher mumbled as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

"You okay?" Fay asked, more inquisitive than concerned. "You seem a little out of it."

"No… I'm just… tired?" Asher muttered, unsure of his own answer. "Anyway. Whichever one of you wants to go next can go ahead."

Graves and Fay looked to one another, neither jumping at the opportunity.

"If I go, can you keep an eye on him?" Graves asked.

"Sure," Fay replied.

The scarred Sith removed himself from the wall, his spot soon taken by the burned teammate. Graves disappeared into the dwelling, shutting the door behind him, leaving Asher and Fay alone in the hallway. As the tall Sith leaned against the wall, arms crossed, she shot a quick glance over to the burned man, the both of them consumed with silence. Asher's eyes were closed in a harsh squint as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"What happened in there?" Fay asked.

"He put me in my own mind," Asher replied, somewhat regaining his composure. Relaxing his stance, the burned Sith drew in a heavy breath before releasing it, finishing things off with a quick shake of his head. "He could access my memories. Show them to me. Make me feel them. The day Graves and I fought..."

"Made you relive the pain?"

"Made me live the memory. I experienced what I thought I experienced that day. What my mind assigned to our fight."

"So was it better or worse than how things actually went?" Fay asked.

"How could I possibly know? It's how I remembered things. If I remembered with more clarity, _that_ would have been the memory instead," Asher declared.

"Hmm," Fay offered. A soft, almost dismissive, fascination.

Inside Syrosk's dwelling, Graves sat in the center chair as his employer circled around him.

"Now, close your eyes," said Syrosk. The scarred Human did so, drawing and releasing a calm breath. "Now, open them."

Graves had been transported to the same blank mindscape as the man before him. Pure, pristine whiteness stretched toward infinity in all directions. The two Sith stood atop a hard surface, but its border with the sky on the horizon was indistinguishable. Looking around, Graves eventually saw Syrosk staring at him, offering the firm arch of his brow.

"Now that… was unexpected," Syrosk rasped.

Graves looked down to examine his form. There were no robes nor armor encasing his body. In fact, he almost didn't possess a body to begin with. Staring at his hands, Graves saw only an ethereal outline of where he ought to have been, absent any organics or cybernetics, transparent and surrounded by a shimmering and undulating aura. Almost colorless, the Sith blended in with the surrounding emptiness. The humanoid shape had no features. No face. Only a wispy aura that surrounded and rose from his frame like steam.

"What is this?" came Graves' voice from the ethereal being.

"You. Rather, a representation of you," Syrosk explained. "We currently reside within your mind."

The ethereal figure looked around. "Is this… normal?"

"The place I have created? Yes," Syrosk admitted. "Your given form? Not quite. Usually a Sith's physical form is so embedded in their mind that they've only one possible representation. I guess your unique physiology has had an effect on your psyche."

"Is that… good? Bad?"

"That remains to be seen," Syrosk rasped. "It doesn't seem have negatively affected your mental capabilities. You're doing an excellent job keeping me from accessing your memories."

"I am?" Graves muttered, tilting the head of his ethereal form.

There was a pause as Syrosk arched his brow. "You mean you're not actively resisting me right now?"

"Should I be?" Graves asked, genuinely curious.

The Sith Lord scratched his chin, passing his gaze up and down his subordinate's vaguely humanoid form. "Did your previous master train you in the mental arts?"

"Drath? No, he pretty much kept up my training as a swordsman," Graves stated.

"Do you meditate?"

"Not really…"

"And yet, you seem to have an almost unconscious mental fortitude. Why might that be?" Syrosk rasped.

"I'm as curious as you are," Graves plainly replied.

The ethereal Sith watched as the whiteness surrounding him warped and darkened. The infinite collapsed on itself, constricting and folding. Soon, the blank void had been replaced with the interior of Syrosk's office. The Human looked to his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. They were without feeling, but they had substance. One of flesh. One of metal.

Lifting his gaze, Graves saw Syrosk circle around him. But his motions did not stop there. The Sith Lord continued to pace about, intently scratching his rough chin.

"Was that it?" Graves asked.

The alien offered no reply as he strafed back and forth, head dipped, eyes focused on the ground before his feet. After a few moments of silent contemplation, the Sith Lord's movements finally ceased.

"There's little I can do," Syrosk said with a low rasp. "I don't know how I can improve upon what you already possess. Especially if it stems from unconscious effort. Regardless, you're not a liability, so we're done here. You can send in Fay."

Graves cast his steady gaze toward his superior. The alien seemed almost flustered, but the subordinate had no thoughts to add. Lifting himself from his seat, the scarred man made his way out of the office. Stepping into the hallway, the Sith found the eyes of his fellows fall to him.

"Wow, that _was_ quick," Asher muttered.

"The man's efficient, I'll give him that," said Fay, arms still crossed, back still pressed against the wall. "I assume it's my turn?"

Graves offered a quick nod. With that, Fay pushed herself off the wall and moved toward the office without a second thought. The scarred man stepped aside to let her pass, before taking her place on the wall next to Asher.

The burned main turned toward his fellow, looking up and down the man's calm, steady frame. "How'd things go for you?"

"Alright, I guess," Graves replied.

"What do you mean, 'I guess'? What memories did he show you?"

"None."

"None?"

"None," Graves repeated. "Said he was having trouble accessing them. Something about me unconsciously keeping him out. I don't know, this mental stuff's all new to me. Why? What did he show you?"

Asher waved his wrapped hand in front of his wrapped face. "Take a wild guess."

"Hmm. What was that like?"

"Well, I'd describe it for you, but somehow I doubt you'd understand what being set on fire feels like," Asher muttered.

The hall went silent as the pair stood with their backs against the wall, eyes staring at the door across from them. They had each adopted a constricted stance, arms crossed, head dipped.

"If we're being honest, I don't even remember anything about our duel after you cut off my arm," Graves admitted. Asher quickly turned his head, eyes wide as he stared as his fellow Sith. "Everything went dark, and I woke up back at the Academy being patched up. I only heard what happened to you later."

Asher opened his mouth, ready to speak. But as he stared at the scarred Sith beside him, he paused, releasing only an exasperated sigh.

Inside the office, Fay had taken her seat, already being tended by Syrosk. The routine was the same as the previous two. Syrosk would tell her to close her eyes. She would comply. Syrosk would tell her to open her eyes. She would comply, finding herself standing amongst the white void of the shared mindscape.

Surrounded by nothing in every direction, for every conceivable distance, the Kineticist stood resolute as always, arms neatly folded across her chest. She was utterly unfazed, and made as much clear as she cast her stoic gaze upon the circling Sith Lord. The circling turned to repeated strafing as Syrosk looked up and down his subordinate's form.

She possessed the same figure. The same clothes. The same demeanor. Not a single aspect had changed in the transition.

"Impressive," Syrosk spoke up. "You've a firmer grasp on your mind than the other two."

Fay offered a brief shrug. "I had good training."

"I know. I've read your file," Syrosk rasped. "You belonged to Military Strategy. You were expected to be more than a fighter. Expected to be able to keep the Empire's secrets. But your master covered only the basics."

"Is this the part where you make me relive my worst memories? Push me until I push back?" Fay tersely asked. "You'll find I'm not as easy to pick through as Asher."

"Of that I've no doubt. Even now, you're consciously keeping me out. But your efforts are too blunt. In protecting certain aspects of your mind you've drawn attention to them. I know exactly where you keep your most hidden thoughts."

"Doesn't do you much good if you can't reach them," Fay declared.

"A prideful thing, aren't you?" Syrosk softly rasped, neither praise nor condemnation in his delivery. "Very well, let us see what your training has afforded you."

All motions stopped. The two figures stood across from each other, eyes locked. Fay maintained her rigid stance, arms firmly crossed. Syrosk, meanwhile, tucked his arms behind his back as he narrowed his gaze.

All was still. All was quiet.

Suddenly, there was a fluttering amongst the white void. The tall woman's braided hair swayed as if caressed by a gentle breeze. But the calm would not last. The manifesting winds picked up, lashing out at the two adamant figures, but neither would budge. The swirling air soon carried an added grit, flakes of white that managed to stand out from the pristine surroundings. The air grew thicker and thicker as a fog rolled in around the pair. The floor beneath their feet began to vibrate as a new texture supplanted the perfect surface. The whiteness was tarnished, but not entirely missing. In its place, stone beset by ice and snow.

* * *

Nami had all but lost the feeling in her extremities. Her hands shakily gripped her weapon, the heavy rod struggling to stay upright. The winds had picked up, stinging her eyes and exposed flesh. Disoriented, she had lost track of the Trandoshan lurking in the fog. Sinking into the snow, the Jedi spun on her feet, anxiously seeking her foe.

A whistle cut through the air, and a sharp tingling ran up Nami's spine. She didn't even have time to turn, only duck, as a heavy piece of metal swung past where her head was only a moment prior. The swipe carried with it a wind stronger than any surrounding the combatants, one that shook the Jedi to her core. Nami knew she had to move, but found herself unable. She was frozen in place, stilled by the missed blow that would have otherwise separated her head from her body.

Just as she regained control, she attempted to right herself, only to find the Trandoshan's scaled fist driven into her cheek. The strike sent the girl tumbling to the ground, her weapon slipping from her grasp. As Nami lay prone, half-embedded in the snow, Nesk stood over her, looming with his towering frame.

The instructor began pacing back and forth, emanating a low snarl as he looked upon his fallen student. Nami struggled to lift herself from the ground. She was tired. She was numb. Even as her cheek reddened, she had felt little of the blow itself. All that was left were motions. Motions and strength.

Nami began lifting herself, step by step. She dug her hands into the snow, locking her elbows. Slowly, she rose until her arms collapsed beneath her, sending her back to her prone position.

"Get up," Nesk snarled.

"I… I can't…" Nami muttered, still on the ground.

"Yes it can. Get up."

The Jedi dug her hands in once again, but instead used her strength to flip over. Her back against the ground, the girl looked up at her looming instructor.

"And then what?" Nami asked, finding the energy to speak. "I'm just going to… get knocked down again…"

The Trandoshan offered the arch of his scaly brow. "So?"

"So what do you want me to do?" Nami muttered.

"Get up," Nesk bluntly replied. "Get up and get good."

"What kind of advice… is that?"

"Best kind," Nesk firmly stated. "It is soft thing. Soft things die here. Become hard thing. Strong thing."

A soft groan emanated from the downed student as she slowly raised herself into a seated position. Hunched over, the girl released a series of heavy breaths, visible amongst the chilled air.

"Why do you keep calling me 'it'?" Nami muttered. "I'm not a thing."

Nesk took a few steps toward his student, before squatting at her side. "Is it not? What is it then?"

"A person," Nami stated, refusing to lock eyes with her instructor.

"And what does that mean?" Nesk asked. "Why does it consider that better? Hmm? Because it has name? Because it is Human? Because it is girl? Because it is youngling?"

"I'm not… a child."

"No. It is not. It is Sith. Or is Nesk mistaken?"

"What are you… talking about?"

"If it wants to be Sith, Nesk will treat it like Sith," the Trandoshan declared. "If it wants to be Sith, that is what it must be. Nothing else may take precedence. Being Sith must rest at its core, must flow through every fiber of its being. Do not be girl who happens to be Sith. Be Sith who happens to be girl."

Nami drew in and released a series of heavy breaths as she turned to look the looming Sith in his beady eyes. "That… oddly made sense. At least… some of it did."

"Then it understands. Good," Nesk said as he straightened out his stance. "Now, get up."

As Nami pivoted about her waist, the student felt what little control she possessed over her body steadily being sapped by the exhausting cold. "I can barely move."

"Don't care. Get up," Nesk directed as he kicked a pile of snow toward the girl. Nami's limp arms could do nothing to block the clumps as they struck her face and chest. She winced, mostly through unpreparedness rather than true discomfort.

"I think my body's gone numb," Nami muttered, snow still clinging to her upper robes.

"The Force flows through every cell in its body," Nesk declared. "A Sith controls the Force. Therefore, a Sith is always in control of its body. If it wants to move, it possesses the ability to make it so."

"I don't… I can't…"

"If it does not take control, the Force will abandon it, and its life will not be far behind," Nesk said as his bare foot delivered another pile of snow onto the student.

Nami shivered, not from the cold, but from her body's efforts to move itself from its stilled hunch. The girl gritted her teeth, clenching her numb fingers.

"Get up," Nesk continued.

Another kick, another pile of snow heaped upon the sitting student.

"Get good."

Another kick, but this time, Nami managed to raise an arm to intercede. The clumps ineffectually clung to her sleeves, but the Trandoshan would not relent.

"Get strong."

Another kick. Nami opted to weather the snow. Her arm was better suited as a brace as she struggled to push herself off the ground. A low grumble began to slip past the girl's gritted teeth as she urged herself upward.

"Take control."

Another kick. This time, the snow would land upon her pants as she lunged forward. The grumble had turned into a primal shout as the student raised herself through sheer force of will. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, the girl wound back her fist before delivering it straight into the Trandoshan's gut.

The strike came to an abrupt stop as it impacted against the instructor's sturdy hide. Nesk stood unwavering, unaffected by the haphazard blow. Nami, meanwhile, slipped and fell back to the ground where she would lay prone in the snow once more. The Trandoshan cast his sharpened gaze upon the now motionless student. Tilting his head, Nesk offered a few quick nudges with his foot against the girl's shoulder. No response.

The instructor release a quick sigh. Stepping away from the fallen student, he casually walked around the snowy field that surrounded them, retrieving the bag he had brought, and the rod Nami had dropped. Reclaiming his belongings, Nesk paused beside the stilled girl. Carefully, he removed the swords strapped to his back and placed them in the bag alongside the metallic rods. Resting his luggage on his ground, the Trandoshan finally turned his attention toward his student.

In one swift motion, Nesk lifted the girl's limp body and slung it over his shoulder. Making sure she was secure, the instructor then picked his bag up off the ground and began making his way back toward his home.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

A familiar gray haze stretched in every direction, interrupted only by jagged peaks of frozen stone. The winds had died down, only a gentle breeze passing over the fields of rock and snow. But even without the bellowing air, the scene's inhabitants would have succumbed to the cold, if not for the fact that none of it was real.

"Ziost," Syrosk spoke up, continuing to cast his sharpened gaze upon the subordinate across from him. "I didn't expect to be returning here so soon."

"Is it really that surprising?" Fay bluntly asked, stance ever rigid. "This is where I received most of my training. I'm sure most Sith have unpleasant memories from their time as an acolyte."

"But you hold the power to forget. To just let go. What is it that you're holding onto?"

"You're the telepath," Fay offered with a light scoff. "You tell me."

The alien's eye's sharpened. "Very well."

The winds hastened, kicking up a veil of snow that washed away the cold wastes. As the flakes drifted and fled, the scene was replaced with that of the Ziost Academy. Rigid and imposing architecture welcomed a group of trudging children. Gray slabs of stone and metal rose high atop the already tall ridge, casting no shadow and yet basking the new acolytes in its darkness.

A lone adult led the group of children, all Human, out of the cold Ziost exterior and into the cold Academy interior. The adult stood out from the younglings bundled in their many layers of robes and winter attire, standing tall in his Sith garb over all but one. In the rear of the group, a girl not yet even in her teens was tall enough that her head reached the adult's shoulders. She kept her head dipped, her stance slouched, allowing the long, dark hair atop her head to fall and conceal her face.

Fay watched her younger self move into the unwelcoming bastion of the Academy halls, whilst Syrosk gently scratched his chin.

"Came as a child to study in the ways of the Sith," Syrosk began. "Despite efforts to mask your presence, your size immediately made you stand out from your peers."

Inside, the group of children advanced not only in place, but in time. The students found themselves in an oppressive chamber, confined to small desks as an instructor stood at the head of the class prattling on about codes and doctrines. The large girl was barely contained in her desk, and as she sat hunched over, it felt as if all eyes were upon her. Sideward glances fueled by sharpened eyes weighed down upon the isolated student.

"Alone and a target," Syrosk continued. "The worst possible things a Sith can be. A lesser being would have been utterly crushed. But not you. You persisted. You endured."

The classroom faded, its gray walls contorting from a squared chamber to a winding hallway. The sounds of conflict echoed throughout the halls. Years had passed. The young girl had only grown taller, stronger. She had pushed herself physically, training her body to resist the constant trials of the Academy, those issued by instructors and students alike. Backed into a corner, the girl's tall shoulders rose and fell with each heavy breath. Her nostrils flared as she offered a firm scowl. Her knuckles were stained with the blood of her fellows, those who now lay unconscious in front of her.

"It would seem you were more than capable of fighting," Syrosk rasped.

"I didn't have a choice," Fay plainly said.

"I suppose not. Unless…"

Fay arched her brow. "Unless?"

"While we are often forced to defend ourselves," Syrosk said before a pause, "defending another is entirely voluntary."

Behind the standoffish girl, another faded into existence. Curled up into a ball in the hall's corner, the girl peeked through her fingers at the defeated acolytes that lay before her and her tall defender.

"An excellent tactic," Syrosk rasped. "Instead of hiding the memory away, you willingly offered a piece, hoping I wouldn't notice the parts you left out."

Fay remained silent. Looking at the girl cowering behind her younger self, she narrowed her gaze, only this time, instead of a harsh glare, she offered something much softer. As the woman gently sank her teeth into her lower lip, the scene faded once more. The gray walls shifted and expanded, turning from the winding corridor into a central hall.

Fay and Syrosk watched as a pair of teenagers walked side by side through the Academy, shoulder to much lower shoulder, both garbed in the plain gray robes of an acolyte. The pair were contrasts. One Human, one a red-skinned Pureblood. One tall, one short. One hard, one soft. But where they did not differ, was in emotion. As the smaller Sith wore a beaming smile, the larger one released a giggle of her own.

"You found a companion," Syrosk said, a surprising warmth to his usual rasp. "Two Sith who desired each other's company enough to risk the potential outcomes of such a relationship."

The walls of the Academy collapsed and fell as Fay and Syrosk found themselves standing amongst the cold exterior of Ziost. Before them, a number of acolytes stared one another down in pairs, training sabers firmly grasped within their hands. Meanwhile, an instructor cast his discerning gaze from duelist to duelist.

The tall girl kept one hand wrapped around her weapon as she offered a silent glare to her opponent. The boy across from her seemed inferior in all aspects, trembling from a mixture of fear and exposure to the cold winds. Nearby, the tall girl's friend readied herself against a foe much more confident in his standing. With the drop of his hand, the instructor signaled for the acolytes to begin. In an instant, the gray figures did battle amidst the equally gray haze that dominated the field. Boots stamped across rock and snow. Metal rods clashed against one another, sparking as the energy bands running their lengths collided.

As the isolated duels progressed, the tall girl and her friend managed to occasionally sneak a peek at the other. They would lay eyes upon one another for an instant, before returning to focus on their duel. The tall girl made short of her opponent, batting his weapon away and sending him face down into the snow with a balled fist rather than her training blade.

As the acolyte writhed on the ground, the tall girl quickly turned toward the nearby duel her friend was engaged in. The pair of duelists brought their metallic sabers together time and time again. The two Sith were unrefined, sloppy, but such was to be expected of the teenagers. They were raw emotion, lashing out with wide swings and harsh yells. But as the combatants released all manners of shouts, a third source provided one of her own.

The tall girl called out words of encouragement, urging her friend onward. As the duelists locked their blades, the Pureblood turned her head as she maintained her guard. Her crimson eyes locked with those of her tall friend, and a determined smile crept across her lips. The girl shoved the boy away, and found the opening she needed to send her training saber crashing into her foe's abdomen. The other acolyte fell to his knees, clutching at his stomach with his head hung low, hands raised so as to yield.

The Pureblood's smile widened until it had morphed into a toothy grin. Baring her sharpened teeth, the girl offered a giddy bounce as she deactivated and hooked her weapon to her belt.

She and the tall girl abandoned their foes, running to meet each other with a warmth in their eyes. A warmth strong enough to combat the surrounding cold. As they met, the tall girl wrapped her arms around her friend, lifting her into the air and locking her in a strong, yet comforting, embrace.

As the tall girl spun on her heels, she swept her friend around with the greatest of ease, the both of them releasing laughter into the flowing air. In conjunction with the movements, the winds hastened once more, kicking up snow until the scene was obscured from view. One by one the duelists faded into the snow, the last of which being the embracing pair. Finally, Fay and Syrosk found themselves staring into the familiar gray haze.

But as the winds calmed, as the snow settled, the pair were granted sight to a most pleasant vista. Gone were the bleak flatlands and wastes of Ziost. Instead, the tall girl and her friend sat upon the precipice of an overlooking ridge, watching the sun lower on horizon. Breaking the gray monotony of frosted stone, the teenagers basked in the orange luminescence of the fading sun.

Gone were the harsh winds and debilitating cold. Winter had passed, and there was almost an air of comfort as the two acolytes sat together, legs dangling over the cliff's edge.

All was silent as Fay and Syrosk stood behind the teenaged pair. Even as she could only see the back of her head, Fay knew that her younger self wore a smile, one that caused her own lip to quiver. The silence persisted as the two acolytes were content with merely one another's company.

After a few seconds, the smaller girl began to lean, resting her head against her tall friend's arm. There, the teenagers would remain as they continued to gaze toward the Ziost sunset.

Fay's firm crossing of her arms began to rescind. Her limbs had loosened, but as she gripped her elbows, the tall woman began unknowingly tapping her index finger. It moved as a shiver whilst she looked toward her younger self with soft eyes.

Meanwhile, Syrosk offered only the stoic scratching of his chin.

"Hmm," he muttered. "I see now why you took such a liking to Nami. I suppose she reminded you of this girl?"

There was silence as the woman continued to stare at the pair of acolytes. Only after a long pause did the faintest of noises slip past the her lips.

"No..." Fay slowly whispered. She most certainly did not."

Just then, the orange warmth of the setting sun was washed away, replaced by the familiar gray haze. Fay perked up, panning her gaze amidst the bustling winds as if searching for something. When the scene finally cleared, it barely did so, heavy winds carrying flakes of ice and snow clouding her vision.

Suddenly, she could make out two figures trudging across the wastes. The same pair. And yet, different. Acolytes, one a Human, one a Pureblood. But instead of their gray uniforms, their bodies were wrapped in black robes. They had each aged, progressed, grown.

The two teenagers were older, advanced in their studies. Together they marched, feet sinking into the heavy snow with teach step. The tall girl dragged behind her friend, following as the other blazed a trail. There was a tempered haste in the leader's gait, and the tall girl was more than capable of keeping up. But their final destination she did not know.

"How much further, Dess?" the tall girl called out. Her words were filled with wonder, and only a hint of trepidation.

"I told you, Faera, it's just at this next ridge," the other girl replied, voice filled with bubbly amusement. "Now come on, stop asking questions. This is supposed to be a surprise!"

"I guess I should thank you for not blindfolding me," the tall girl replied, a subtle smile upon her lips.

The two acolytes continued their trek across the frozen wastes, as Syrosk and Fay watched from afar. The Sith Lord was atypically silent as he surveyed the unfolding scene, but Fay's breathing was growing faster and heavier with each passing moment.

The snowy winds coalesced into an impenetrable wall of frost, before fading to reveal something besides the usual flatlands the observers had seen. A tall ridge sprouted from the ground, cutting into the sky with its jagged peak. In front of the wall of stone, two statues lay crumbled, ancient monuments to some forgotten Sith Lord. Crumbled, broken, and cast from their pedestals, the statues had long since been claimed by the planet and rendered utterly unrecognizable. But between the remains, was something far less so.

Inlayed with the jagged, imperfect stone, a square archway stood buried in the snow, only a hint of the darkness beyond revealing itself to the pair of acolytes. In front of the archway, the smaller acolyte turned to face her friend.

"It's a tomb!" Dess shouted with glee. The other girl was speechless. Gazing upon the half-buried structure, it was small, hidden, but still somehow magnificent to behold. "This is it, this is our chance to prove ourselves to the Overseer!"

Fay could sense the wind picking up again, threatening to overtake the scene in yet another consuming blur of gray snow. The tall woman's hands were already trembling, and the moment the wind began to die down, the moment she saw the first glimpse of the cavern walls beyond, she shut her eyes with all her might, just as the echo of a scream graced her senses.

In an instant, the mental connection was severed. Ziost had been replaced with the calm of Syrosk's chambers back at the Citadel. The Sith Lord stood in front of his seated subordinated, head dipped with almost a wince upon his face. As he recovered, he looked to see Fay glaring at him, eyes red and on the verge of watering.

"Are we done here?" Fay muttered, a harsh scowl upon her face.

"Yes..." Syrosk calmly rasped. "We're done here. For now."

Fay immediately pushed herself up from the seat and stomped toward the room's exit. Passing beyond the threshold, she didn't even acknowledge her compatriots as they offered their waves and words of welcome. Instead, she kept her sights firmly down the hall as she marched, intent on putting the Citadel behind her.

Graves watched the tall woman round a corner, disappearing into the dark halls as he was left tilting his head. "What do you suppose that was about?"


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

A new day.

Obscured was the passage of time. Outside the small bedroom's window, the unchanging skyline of Kaas City presented itself. The skies remained in their permanent state of chaos and shadowed clouds, ever masking the rising sun. If not for the ringing alarm of a clock on the bedside table, none would know of the morning's arrival.

Shifting beneath her sheets, the tall woman stirred from her slumber. Sitting up, the Sith moved a calm hand toward the alarm, silencing it with a single press. Lifting her large frame from the bed, the constrictive nature of the apartment was made all the more apparent. Raising her arms to stretch, Fay could not help but brush against the cold ceiling.

In silence, the tall woman trudged down dark and gray corridors, dipping her head as she passed through each open doorframe. Stepping into the nearby bathroom, she flicked a switch, basking in the rays of artificial light. The shift stung the Human's eyes, but elicited not even a flinch as she maintained her stoic countenance amidst the early hours.

Hair unbound by knots or braids, the stern visage was at odds with the almost chaotic appearance presented. The dark fibers fell upon sturdy shoulders, continuing down the woman's chest and back in an untamed waves. Paying no mind to the reflection in the mirror before her, she shed whatever nightclothes graced her body and stepped into the walk-in shower. Shutting the pane behind her, the tall woman's head peeked over the opaque barrier.

Hot water left the wall-mounted faucet, splashing against her chiseled frame. Closing her eyes, Fay basked in the warmth of the spray, and soon enough, the once-chilled air became far more welcoming. Upright, the water had no hope of reaching anywhere near the Human's face or scalp. Instead, she had to bend her legs if she wanted anything above her shoulders to not remain dry.

Bracing herself against the forward wall, Fay directed her head just below the faucet. As the waters cascaded down her form, it hugged every firm contour and ridge that graced her figure. One particular ridge, however, stood out from the rest, as it was not born from her efforts, but from another's.

A deep scar ran the length of the tall woman's back, a diagonal gash that stretched from shoulder to waist. The singular mark upon her otherwise pristine, unmarred body. And one readily kept from sight outside the confines of her domicile.

The routine continued much as it had on any other day. Despite the recent happenings in her life, some things had no intention of changing. No manner of new masters or purpose would interfere with starting the day with a warm shower.

* * *

The steady stream of the faucet turned into a mere trickle as the water ceased its advance. Amidst the steamy air, the door of the walk-in shower slightly parted and an arm emerged. Reaching for a nearby rack, the speckled limb found the towels just beyond its reach. Ceasing its frantic grasping, it instead opted for a series of smooth waves as its hand clutched at the air. Soon after, a towel lifted itself from the rack and began floating toward the slowly clenching fingers.

As soon as fiber met burnt flesh, the hand snatched the towel and pulled it behind the cracked barrier. The shower head releasing its last trickle, the faint sounds of rustling filled the bathroom as the figure dried off. Finally, the burned man emerged from behind the opaque screen, towel wrapped around his waist.

Stepping out, the Human's legs were rather unremarkable. Fair-skinned. Typically haired. A firm contrast to the man's upper body. Starting just above the waistline, Asher wore the aftermath of a lost bout with fire. The skin covering his lean, athletic frame was spotted and of varying tones across his head and torso. But the effects seemed superficial as the Sith continued his morning routine undeterred.

Maneuvering toward the nearby mirror, Asher's focus was not on his reflection, but the cabinet that stood before him. Kneeling down, the burned man opened the container, within which rest more than a dozen rolls of white material. Pulling a handful of the bandages out, the Sith set them on the countertop before finally looking up and down his body in the mirror.

Unraveling one of the rolls, Asher went to work doing what he had done countless times before. Pressing the end of the bandage against his abdomen, the burned man began slowly unrolling the material and wrapping his flesh. With each methodical second, the white material obscured more and more of the pink skin underneath. And so the Sith worked his way up, covering his abdomen and chest, until the roll had no more bandage to give. A new roll started, wrapping around his shoulder and continuing down his left arm. The same was done to the right.

Finally, wrapped below the neck, Asher locked eyes with his reflected self. The stare-down lasted for only a moment before both figures cracked a sharp grin. With his final prepared roll, the burned man went to work wrapping his head, maneuvering around each contour and pressing down the short bedraggled hair that graced his scalp. Soon, all was covered but the gaps left for his eyes, mouth, and ears.

Stepping away from the mirror, Asher made his way back toward the bedroom. As little flesh he exposed at that moment, bandages and a towel proved an insufficient alternative to clothes. Passing through dimly lit corridors of plain grays and smooth surfaces, the burned man eventually reached his destination.

Swinging open the doors of his closet, the Sith looked upon the numerous sets of baggy robes and clothes with which to further conceal his being.

* * *

There was an audible click as the scarred man buckled the fastener at his waist. Hands working in tandem, one of rough and calloused flesh, the other of smooth and polished metal, Graves had firmly secured the armorweave around his legs. Half of his outfit had been donned or, more appropriately, assembled. The plated boots and hardened leggings of his battle attire hugged his battered hide, the rest of it yet unburdened by the stiff material.

Reaching into the closet, the Human returned with a long-sleeved shirt. The black, form-fitting compression garb was merely a base, a buffer between the skin and the armored chest-piece that would surround it. Slipping his arms through the sleeves, the thin material hugged Graves' organic and inorganic parts. The black shirt soon masked the litany of scars that graced the man's sturdy musculature. But with his hands and face still exposed, there remained little hope for achieving anything resembling symmetry.

The scarred man hoisted his chestguard off of the ground, carefully lifting the bulky garb over his head. The armorweave had the maneuverability of hardened leather, but the inlayed plates and attached pauldrons made it a hassle to don even with the wearer's enhanced strength. His arms stretched high, Graves slipped his limbs through yet another set of sleeves as he lowered the chest-piece down upon himself, eventually popping his head through the armor's neck hole.

A few quick adjustments, and the pieces had shifted into place. Comfort wasn't something on the Sith's mind, but he knew each piece had its proper position, and he knew each piece belonged there. Bending his even bulkier mass over, the scarred man retrieved a pair of plated gloves and slipped them over his hands. No longer was there the distinction of flesh or prosthetic. The armored state took precedence. Fastening the gauntlets, Graves clenched and unclenched his fists before turning to the final piece of the ensemble.

For his last foray into the closet, the scarred man retrieved a utility belt, various boxy pouches and attachment points lining its length. Wrapping the piece around his waist, the clink of interlocking metal sounded out as its two ends met. Thus, the suit was complete.

Taking a few steps back, Graves sat on the edge of his bed. Holding his hands in front of him, he began staring at his open palms. Focusing on his left, he ran through the same sequence he did every morning, extending each finger one by one. After the five movements proved satisfactory, he urged his prosthetic into various arrangements to further to test its operation.

When his left hand finally ceased its motions, the scarred man did not rise. Instead, he directed his focus toward his right hand of flesh and bone. He began running the same sequence, extending and retracting each finger before moving into more varied arrangements. Spending just as much time with his right as his left, Graves showed no favor toward either hand when it came to capability.

Lowering his palms, the scarred man turned his attention to the left of his limbs. Poking and prodding his numb self, the Human moved with an ordered grace about his armored figure as he continued sitting at the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers up his left arm, giving a few subtle taps along the way. Then, the same with his right arm. Then, his right leg.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of a bed that looked practically makeshift, the horned alien sat in the dim lighting of his office turned domicile. Running his leathery hand over his right knee, Syrosk stopped to give it a series of quick taps, eliciting a muffled clank from beneath his black robes. With a raspy sigh, the Sith Lord raised himself from his cot, setting his sights on the adjacent table.

Though converted from its original state, much of room remained occupied by the tools of prior purpose. Armoires stood adjacent to data terminals. A once central desk had been shoved against the wall, losing whatever magnificence it may have possessed as it lay buried under a haphazardly tossed cloak. In the corner of the compact chamber stood a mannequin garbed in a suit of armor, black plates home to the scars of battle. Scratches and scorch marks graced every surface, wrought by both saber and blaster, by both Jedi and Sith. Of note was the piece missing from the lower-half of the right leg, and the hole bored through its abdomen.

Picking up a datapad from the nearby table, Syrosk had already begun the day in earnest, cold eyes scanning the various status updates and notices that presented themselves. Despite having slept through only one of the preceding seven nights, even the Sith's restlessness could not compare to that of the Empire's. The Executors could operate without his direct oversight. And given recent responsibilities placed upon the alien, they would likely have to.

Tapping away at his datapad, Syrosk quickly authorized a series of low-priority requests and operations that had accumulated whilst he slumbered. Finishing off the backlog, the elder Executor then sent a trio of notices to his subordinates, summoning them to the Citadel in a matter of hours.

With that, he set the tablet back down, never shedding the dull stoicism that dominated his visage. With a series of uneven steps, the horned alien approached the wall-bound desk, clutching the cowl of the black cloak within his rough hand.

* * *

Sharp claws gripped the black cloth for but a moment before giving it a mighty tug. In one swift motion, the scaled arm flung back the bedsheet, revealing the slumbering girl underneath. Shaken awake by the chaotic motions and sounds, the Human's eyes shot open to see a Trandoshan standing over her.

Immediately, she constricted, covering herself with her arms despite being garbed in her under-robes. Nesk offered only the narrowing of his beady eyes as he looked upon the shivering Human.

"Time to get up," said the Trandoshan. His words were blunt, and his tone sharp. But Nami was more interested in her surroundings. Turning her head side to side, she examined the unfamiliar room, compact and free of excess adornments. The black sheet that had apparently been covering her lay in a disheveled heap at her feet.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked.

"Too long," Nesk snarled. "It must train."

Rubbing her eyes, the girl shivered, a distinct lack of heat gracing the bedroom. "I don't… remember getting here."

There was a worry in her voice. One only she could understand. The Trandoshan remained adamant, not budging from his bedside stance.

"Dragged it back after yesterday's training," Nesk explained. "It's had enough time to rest." Bending over, the Trandoshan reached down, just below the girl's sight with the edge of the bed. She couldn't get a clear picture as he stood back up amidst the darkness. Instead, she found a pile of clothes tossed at her face. "Must continue training."

Nami examined the disheveled attire in her lap. Gray, form-fitting robes. Robes of an acolyte. Robes of a Sith. The ends were frayed, and nothing at first glance seemed to be quite the right size, but she knew better than to offer protest.

"Thanks," Nami finally spoke after a moment of hesitation.

"Thanks not necessary. Robes necessary. Should fit small thing."

The girl released a low sigh. "Can we stop with the 'soft thing' _thing_? Heard enough of that yesterday…"

"Said 'small thing', not 'soft thing'." The Trandoshan crossed his arms. "Is improvement."

"Hmph," Nami offered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll take your word for it."

"It should," Nesk plainly stated, bending slightly to better meet his eyes with those of the Human. "Is change. Sith is change. If it can change, it is Sith."

"Inspiring as always," the girl muttered, toeing the line between deadpan snark and morning grogginess. "So, are we going to spend the day fighting out in the middle of nowhere again?"

"No," Nesk bluntly answered, turning toward the bedroom's exit.

"No?"

Pausing, the Trandoshan shot a quick look over his shoulder, eyes piercing through the darkness. "Today, it belongs to Vurt."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Kaas City Citadel. Executor Headquarters. Early morning.

The cramped chambers were bustling as the normal staff carried out their tasks with the expected efficiency of Imperials under direct Sith oversight. All evidence of the morning shift-change had vanished, and the nondescript Humans that worked for Production and Logistics did so without missing a beat. The various gray terminals and databanks that lined the walls flashed their information through a series of lights and chirps, each one recorded and filtered by the ever-proficient Imperials.

Contrasting the continuous flow and motion were the Sith standing near the headquarters' entrance, patiently waiting for the day's assignment in their battle-ready attire. Asher, Fay, and Graves; respectively robed, gloved, and armored. The trio leaned against the wall, side by side, none uttering a word as they looked to their superior. However, Syrosk acted much the same as them. The horned alien stood as a statue in the middle of the chamber, eyeing the main communications array. Watching. Waiting.

Carefully, Asher leaned closer to the scarred man at his side, whispering in Graves' ear, "Isn't this usually the part where he gives us our task for the day?"

Graves opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off before the first syllable left his mouth.

"Indeed it is," Syrosk declared from afar, not tearing his gaze away from the central terminal. "But there's been a change in plans."

Asher straightened out his stance, before slumping against the wall with a low sigh. "Should have known better."

"Even if he couldn't hear you, the man's a telepath," Fay stated, shooting the burned Sith a quick glance out of the corner of her eye.

"I thought the point of the other day was so that he couldn't read our minds," Asher whispered.

"One wall does not a fortress make," Syrosk rasped. The elder Sith finally turned away from the center of the chamber to face his subordinates. "More sessions are required before I'll be satisfied with your abilities."

"Then why aren't we in a session right now?" Asher bluntly asked.

Syrosk turned back toward the comm terminal. "Why, indeed."

A sharp ping rang throughout the entire chamber, and the previous bustle came to an immediate and sudden halt. The Imperials froze mid-step, slowly craning their necks until their wide-eyed stares fell upon the central terminal. The three Sith by the entrance puzzled at the seemingly innocuous sound, which obviously carried a significant meaning.

The holographic maps and data streams immediately washed away, and were soon replaced by the flickering figure of one Darth Vowrawn. Appearing above a much more reliable projector, the Pureblood was fully rendered in all his magnificence.

Thick robes of numerous layers and designs wrapped the elder Sith, their colors lost amidst the blue electronic image. The Dark Councilor's face possessed the traits typical of his species, stubby, fleshy tendrils hanging from his chin and cheeks like a Human would wear a goatee. His skin was aged, but lacked any of the corruption or decay expected of a Sith of his age or position. Rather than a powerful conqueror, Vowrawn appeared as a noble politician. A gentleman. And at the sight of the amiable figure, the Imperial workers lowered their heads, offering the Dark Councilor the most respectful of bows.

A cordial chuckle emanated from the terminal as the holographic Pureblood offered a soft wave of his hand. "I appreciate the warm welcome, but time spent bowing would be better spent working, yes?"

Even if the electronic image weren't of an enlarged scale, the elder Sith would have still been larger than life. To his people, Vowrawn's every word was equal parts powerful and sweet. To his fellow Sith, a moderately pleasant voice, hiding countless unknowns beneath a regal facade.

The Imperials quickly turned away from the Dark Councilor, resuming their work without a moment of hesitation. Syrosk, however, merely cemented his gaze on the man only a few years his junior, yet vastly superior in rank and station.

"Lord Vowrawn," the horned Sith rasped. Syrosk maintained his gruff stoicism, offering no excess pleasantries nor derisions. "I received your message this morning. You'll understand my desire for an explanation."

"But of course!" the Councilor warmly replied, followed by a pause. The hologram's eyes seemed to sway from side to side, as if searching for something. "Where might our three newest Executors be?"

The trio of Sith leaning against the wall shared a brief round of looks before stepping forward. Soon, they were standing shoulder to disparate shoulder alongside their immediate boss, prompting a smile to appear on the grander boss floating atop the central terminal.

"They're here," Syrosk plainly stated. "I intended to continue their training today, until I got your notice. Why are you putting my work on hold? What do you want with them?"

A quaint chuckle from the Dark Councilor. "Syrosk, it's not them I desire. It is you."

"Pardon?" Syrosk rasped, arching his brow.

"I require your assistance," said Vowrawn. "More accurately, I desire your company. There's a banquet being held later today, and I'd like to take you as my guest."

Syrosk's brow remained raised. "A banquet."

The Pureblood nodded. "Correct."

"And you want me as your guest?" Syrosk muttered as his head dipped, shaking from side to side.

Another nod from the Councilor. "Indeed."

The horned alien rubbed his leathery brow. "Why me? Aren't there plenty of Sith better suited for this? One of your serving Lords? An apprentice, perhaps?"

"No action is taken without purpose, Syrosk," Vowrawn declared, smile widening. "Come. You deserve this."

"Somehow I doubt anyone else at the banquet will think so," Syrosk rasped. After a pause, the alien jutted a thumb toward his subordinates. "And what of these three? Shall they have the day off?" His disgust at the notion was almost tangible as the words left Syrosk's mouth.

A trademark chortle from the ever-pleasant Darth. "Of course not. I have a task for them as well."

"Which would be?" Syrosk asked.

"How familiar are you with Balmorra?" Vowrawn asked back.

"Factory world," Fay spoke up, crossing her arms. "Primarily armstech and droid production. Highly contested. At least, until the Treaty of Coruscant forced the Republic to completely pull out."

Vowrawn offered a contented nod. "Yes, I assumed your background would leave you somewhat familiar. Indeed, the Republic no longer has a presence on the world. And as the Sphere of Production and Logistics, it is our duty to ensure stability as the world and its various manufactories make the transition."

"And where do the Executors come in?" Syrosk asked.

"Officially? They are to watch over the local factory owners, make them feel safe through the transition," Vowrawn explained. "The Republic may have left, but there remains a rebel element that does not take kindly to Imperial rule. The Executors are to act as security."

"And unofficially?"

"Balmorra still possesses a heavy military presence," Vowrawn stated. "I fear some of the Sith assigned to the world may attempt to use the situation there for their own personal gain."

"And what sort of gain might that be?" Asher spoke up.

"War…" Fay muttered.

"Exactly," said Vowrawn. "Ever since the Treaty of Coruscant, widespread and open conflict has been in short supply. A sad loss in the minds of many a Sith, young or old. Many see Balmorra as a chance to reignite that lost passion. Push the rebels until they push back, and then push even harder."

"Turning Balmorra into a battleground, with or without the Republic's help," Fay declared.

"It would be in our best interest to keep such conflict quelled," Vowrawn stated. "And if you succeed in keeping the peace, we'd earn the favor of Diplomacy as well."

Asher smirked. "Inhibit their gains for the sake of our own."

"Quite," Vowrawn warmly replied. "The Ministry of War has no interest in wasting resources on petty squabbles to sate the desires of petty Sith. We lose nothing if we can dissuade these miscreants and keep the peace."

"And how exactly are we expected to 'keep the peace'?" Fay asked.

"By any means necessary," Vowrawn plainly said. The smile remained upon the hologram, but with each passing second its meaning changed. The pleasantness in the elder Pureblood's face remained in form, but there was an underlying intrigue befitting the Dark Councilor. "You three are to make for Balmorra as soon as possible. With your ship, you should be capable of an extended stay." A pause. "Meanwhile, Syrosk and I have a banquet to attend."

The alien released a low sigh. "When and where do we meet?"

"Outside my office. As soon as you can."

With that, the image flickered before fading completely. The room went quiet, the pattering of feet dulling as the workers momentarily ceased their operations. More and more eyes fell upon the horned Sith.

"Everyone, continue your duties," Syrosk called out, before turning to the trio of Sith at his side. "You three, follow me."

The insistence in the alien's words were soon matched by his steps. Uneven as his trudge was, the elderly Sith was still capable of moving with haste. The younger trio offered only the briefest of glances to one another before quickly moving after their boss.

Putting the meager headquarters behind them, the four Sith moved in tandem through the halls of the Kaas City Citadel. As always, Syrosk set the pace.

"Banquet, huh?" Asher spoke up, breaking the silence. "Sounds fun."

"Sith throw the best banquets..." said Fay. "And the worst ones."

"Because of the food, or the potential bloodshed?" asked Graves.

"The bloodshed mostly," Fay plainly answered. "The food is typically rather good."

"Wouldn't know," Graves admitted.

"Don't get invited to many banquets, do you?" Asher teased.

"Actually, I can't taste-"

"Enough," Syrosk interrupted as he continued his march through the Citadel halls. "I've no doubt I've just become a pawn in one of Vowrawn's games, and I've no interest in idle natter. You three are to report to your ship. Hopefully someone from headquarters will have the details of your assignment sent by the time you board. Check the stocks. Make sure none of your renovations displaced anything of import, as you'll likely be on Balmorra for days, if not weeks."

The alien words practically had to fight to slip through his gritted teeth. Syrosk's seething continued unabated, even as his subordinates retained their casual demeanors. The quartet moved in silence until they passed the threshold of the next chamber. A hub, home to many more paths and divergent hallways.

The chamber was grand in all aspects. The ceiling stretched higher than it had any right or reason to, purposeless except to instill a feeling of grandeur. Gray statues of a robed Sith flanked each path out from the hub, casting their stony gaze upon all who would pass. Monuments to the Emperor, featureless as the individual depicted might have been.

All manners of Imperials and Sith traversed the nexus, intent fueling their every step. Guardsmen, in their red armor and robes, scanned the chamber, ready to strike down any miscreant, be they Force-sensitive or not. Lords and their various entourages of apprentices and officers appeared and disappeared without a second thought.

After only a single step into the chamber, Syrosk came to a pause before turning to face his subordinates. "You have your mission… and I apparently have mine. The banquet shall only last the day, so I'll be back in command before you've even arrived on Balmorra. I trust you three can handle yourselves until then, yes? Good. Then this is where we part ways."

With that, the alien Lord stepped away, setting his sights on the path that would eventually place him at the doorstep of Darth Vowrawn. The stilled trio of Sith could only watch as their boss all but stomped toward his destination.

"Methinks our boss isn't a fan of someone taking control away from him," Asher bluntly offered.

"Is anyone?" asked Fay.

"Fair point," replied Asher. "So, thoughts on this Balmorra assignment?"

"Well," Graves began. "When we signed up, Syrosk did mention we might be tasked with striking down unruly Sith. Guess it was only a matter of time."

"You never know," said Fay, folding her arms in front of her chest. "Our mere presence might be enough to dissuade anyone from stirring up trouble."

Asher offered both a chuckle and a shrug. "I'd consider the idea absurd, were it coming from anyone other than the giantess who could crush a man's skull-"

"Yes, yes, between my thighs, you've said it before," Fay muttered.

"I was going to say 'with her bare hands', but whatever works for you," Asher offered with a flippant wave of his hand.

A sigh from the tall woman. "Can we just head for the ship?"

The trio began to move, if only to keep from attracting attention by standing still in the center of the Citadel for an extended period of time. Together, the three Sith headed toward the path that would spill them into the streets of Kaas City.

"You know," Graves spoke up, continuing alongside his fellows. "Depending on how long we spend on Balmorra, Nami might be out of the Academy by the time we return."

"Assuming she makes it out in the first place," Asher muttered. Hardly a moment after the last word left his lips, the burned Sith was almost knocked off balance by a forceful blow to his side. Righting his gait after a momentary stumble, Asher looked toward the source of the jab just in time to see Fay's powerful arms return to their crossed position.

"She'll make it," she said, utterly confident. There was a pause. "Though I wonder how she's doing with her preparations."

* * *

Ziost. The Frozen Wastes. Early morning.

Familiar were the chilled winds that battered Nami's face. As were the clumps of ice and snow clenched between her fists as she struggled to pick herself off the ground. New was the stain of red beneath her as she spat onto the ground. Wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her new robes, each breath Nami took brought with it a sharp pain in her chest. She tried to stand, leaning against the same rod she had used in the previous day's training. But as her legs threatened to give out beneath her, her teacher stood across from her, unarmed, and unharmed.

The Nikto offered nothing but his cold stare. Hands folded neatly behind his back, only after the former Padawan was fully upright did the weaponless Sith extend his left hand. In one single, fleeting motion, he beckoned his opponent, urging her to continue.

Tightening her grip around the metallic rod that was her weapon, Nami flung herself forward. She released a wide swing, one that Vurt effortlessly ducked beneath. Her attack not even finished, the girl could do nothing as the Nikto drove his fist into her ribs. A sharp wail slipped passed Nami's lips, just the rod slipped from her hands. In a matter of moments, both the student and her weapon had fallen meters apart, half-buried in the snow.

The Nikto continued to offer nothing but his silent stare as the girl writhed on the cold ground, clutching as her side. The process had repeated. Nami, on the ground. Vurt, standing over her. One, battered and beaten. The other, perfectly fine.

"S...s..." Nami muttered through gritted teeth. The girl struggled to push herself off the ground, instead managing only to lift her gaze high enough to meet her foe's gaze. "Say something! Anything! How am I supposed to learn... if you won't even talk?"

Nothing but silence from the Nikto, followed by the familiar beckoning motion of his fingers. Only this time, Nami refused to comply. Instead, she simply remained on the ground, propped up only by the last vestige of strength left in her arms.

"No..." she whispered. "I'm not continuing… until you speak to me. At least Nesk had the decency to-"

The girl was interrupted by Vurt driving his boot into her side, sending her rolling to the flat of the back. Every part of her body ached. She had no idea which wound warranted the most attention, but it mattered not. Soon, Nami found her teacher lightly stepping on her neck, permitting only the faintest gasps to slip into her lungs.

Clutching at the Nikto's ankle, the girl was powerless to alter her condition as Vurt continued to stare with his beady eyes. But finally, his lips began to part.

"I speak... only to those who have proven themselves worthy," he stated. The Nikto's voice remained deep and smooth, and barely rose above a whisper. "And thus far, you've offered little to impress me."

Nami could do nothing but wildly swing at the Sith's leg, beating against it with her numb fists. But the Sith's limb refused to budge. Only after a few long moments did he withdraw his foot, and the girl took in a heavy wheeze.

"Discipline or fury. Choose one," said Vurt. "If you seek the comfort of one as soon as the other fails you, you'll never survive."

The girl released a few haggard coughs as she rubbed her neck, still laying upon the flat of her back.

"Discipline?" Nami managed to speak, her voice rough and sore. "That doesn't… sound like Sith teaching…"

The Nikto squatted beside the fallen Padawan, bringing his unblinking gaze ever closer to Nami's. "That is because I do not teach Sith. I teach survivors. I care not for matters of light and dark. Strength is strength. You have already spent years under the Jedi. That has afforded you some measure of talent. But it lacks refinement. And abandoning what you possess in favor of wild passions will do you no good. Not now, at least. I am to prepare you for the Academy. I am to prepare you for survival. Survival cares not for codes, for nations, for identities. It cares only for capability. There are many paths open, many sources of power... but first you must unlock the basest of such that already exists inside you. A Sith persists. A Sith survives. So must you."

Vurt straightened his posture before turning away from the girl.

"Now get up. Unlike Nesk, I will leave you behind if you pass out."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Asher, Fay, and Graves stepped off a lift and into the hangar in which their vessel waited. The _Fury_-class interceptor sat patiently, undisturbed by droids or technicians, long-since prepped for flight. The trio of Sith walked undeterred toward their mobile base of operations, intent on proceeding with the task they had been given. Their feet carried them across the hangar floor, up the deployed entrance ramp, and inside the half-freighter, half-warship.

Traversing the brief corridor that spilled them into the central chamber of the vessel, it wasn't long before the group was greeted by the _Fury_'s mechanical steward.

"Welcome, masters," ALD called out with the usual overly-pleasant tone. The humanoid machine offered a deep bow of its metallic dome, accentuated by a formal sweeping of its arm.

"Make sure the ship is ready to launch," Graves said to the droid. "We'll be leaving soon."

"As you wish, master." With that, the droid ducked out of the chamber toward the cockpit.

The central room of the interceptor appeared much the same as it did prior to the ship's renovations. Same sparse seating lining the walls. Same central holoterminal. Same aesthetic of sharp angles, polished surfaces, and industrial grates offering glimpses of Imperial technological prowess at work.

Upon the comm array, a blinking red light caught the attention of the Sith. Without a word, Fay approached the terminal and gave a quick flip of the switch. The central projector powered up, and soon, the holographic image of an Imperial stood over the Executors.

Female. Clean cut. Fairly youthful. The officer that inducted the trio on their very first day.

"My lords, I've details pertaining to your mission on Balmorra," she spoke up, soft yet direct in her delivery.

"Go ahead," Fay replied.

The Imperial offered a quick dip of her head before proceeding. "You are to be based out of one of the Empire's forward outposts. Coordinates will be uploaded into your ship's navicomputer shortly. Once you've landed your contact will be Commander Rederick."

"Any specifics on what we'll be doing landside?" asked Fay.

"I'm afraid not yet, my lord," the officer replied. "We're still receiving information here, and will relay it as soon as we're able. Commander Rederick will be able to give you up-to-date information regarding any recent activity on Balmorra."

Fay offered a contented nod. "Very well. We'll be moving out shortly. Upload any additional details as soon as you can."

"We shall, my lord," the officer replied alongside a quick bow. The image flickered until it had disappeared completely. Communications ceased, and the trio of Sith were left alone.

Asher released a low sigh. "One of these days, I hope we get a mission where we're not just running in blind."

"If it makes you feel better, we'll mostly be flying and sitting around," Graves spoke up, stoic as ever. "No running involved."

"Oh, well, that makes it all right then," Asher muttered as he stepped toward the cockpit. "Let's just get airborne."

"I assume this means you'll be taking control of the ship," said Graves, standing completely still.

"Damn straight. Gotta keep me distracted somehow," Asher called out as he disappeared into the connecting corridor.

* * *

An Imperial vessel soared above the Kaas City skyline. Sharp, gray, though miniscule in comparison to the accommodating _Fury_. Instead, the shuttle possessed only a limited passenger bay to ferry its inhabitants.

Within the ship's interior, two figures patiently sat. While the usual rigid and utilitarian designs were present in the construction of the shuttle, every facet of the vessel seemed to possess something more, something grander. The panels and walls that made up the windowless cabin were intricately decorated, crimson designs and markings accenting the otherwise drab interior. The two rows of seats lining the walls featured the most comfortable of cushions, upon which two aging Sith sat opposite one another.

Darth Vowrawn. Lord Syrosk.

The regal Pureblood. The horned alien.

The pair were of many opposites. One was garbed in decadent robes comprised of every shade of red, the other merely in layers of modest blacks. One filled his clothes with a slight frame, the other with one of bulk. One possessed a visage of warmth, the other seemed to have scowl permanently etched onto his face. The only similarity between the two was the presence of wrinkles upon their skin. But even then, there were contrasts. Vowrawn possessed the look of an elder statesman. Syrosk appeared roughened by both age and quarrel.

The two were alone, accompanied only by the soft echoes of the shuttle's engines as it carried them toward their destination, away from the Citadel.

Finally, Syrosk broke the silence. "When do you plan on telling me the real reason you've dragged me along?"

A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "Syrosk, you seem to be implying that I would never desire to treat a friend to a pleasant evening out. Now, it may not be the only reason for your accompaniment, but that makes it no less genuine."

The alien narrowed his gaze, letting a low grumble slip past his lips. "And these other reasons?"

Vowrawn brought a hand to his chin, gently stroking one of the stubby tendrils that hung from it. "Well," he casually began, "I suppose one of the reasons would be that someone intends to kill me." The Councilor remained utterly calm as he continued to stroke his fleshy goatee. Syrosk simply offered the stern arch of his brow. "What? This is a fairly common occurrence for someone such as myself. No need to get so worked up."

"No matter how common, assassination attempts ought to be treated with some measure of gravity," Syrosk plainly stated.

"I've not become utterly careless," Vowrawn offered alongside another chuckle. "I've you to protect me, don't I?"

A soft harrumph from the alien. "If I were you, I'd have chosen a guardian with two good legs." A pause as Syrosk locked eyes with his superior. "Any idea who this someone that intends to kill you is?"

"I don't have the exact details," Vowrawn casually stated. "A Sith within my own Sphere with the right mix of brazenness and cowardice to challenge me. Will likely utilize an underling to do the deed. Standard procedure for this sort of thing."

"Let me guess, you want to use my skills as a telepath to find your would-be assassin," Syrosk suggested.

"Ever the astute being," said Vowrawn with a smirk. "Plus, you're the one Sith I know that would literally have nothing to gain from my demise."

"I'm so glad to have earned your trust," Syrosk offered, utterly deadpan. "So there will be other Sith at this banquet?"

"Only a few."

"That narrows down our suspects, at least," Syrosk stated as he scratched his chin.

"Not quite," the Pureblood quickly added. "I know only that a Sith wants me dead. They may use an apprentice, a guard, a server…"

"What manner of Sith would entrust the death of a Dark Councilor to the wait staff?"

A soft chuckle from Vowrawn. "I'm not known for my combat prowess. I'm sure my life could be cut short with a lucky shot from a holdout blaster."

Syrosk remained silent, offering nothing but his still narrowing gaze upon the unflappable Sith. The Councilor retained his smile under the weight of the alien's eyes, his own unblinking. Finally, Syrosk spoke. "When was the last time you were afraid? Of anything?"

"I can scarcely recall," said Vowrawn.

No words followed, from either Sith. Instead, they remained utterly silent as the shuttle made its way toward the ceremonial hall on the other side of Kaas City.

* * *

Harsh winds battered the faces of two figures as they trudged across the landscape. Vurt led the way, utterly composed and without a scratch on him. Nami followed, dragging a heavy metallic rod behind her, every surface of her body marked with scrapes and bruises. The Sith's movements were ever precise, not missing a step as he walked with his hands folded behind his back. The ex-Jedi moved sloppily and groggily, nearly stumbling to the cold, hard ground time and time again as she continued her trek.

Part of the girl welcomed the numbness that overtook her body, lest she succumb to the aches and pains that dominated her every muscle. But still she winced as the wind delivered a sharp piece of frost into her eye. She dropped her training weapon, which rang out with a loud clang as its other end struck the gray stone beneath her feet.

"Is this place… always like this?" Nami asked, rubbing her eye.

Vurt continued walking, not opting to talk until a few steps had been put between the two of them. "Just because you managed to convince me to speak, doesn't mean I intend to partake in idle chatter."

The girl drew in and released an icy breath, head hung low. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, wrapping her numb fingers around one of the ends of the metallic rod. As the Nikto continued his march unabated, Nami pushed herself forward, urging her body to catch up.

The two continued, across frost-ridden stone, across chilled dirt, and eventually, paved streets. On the outskirt of the city, on the border between civilization and the wastes, the humble home of the instructors drew ever closer. Away from the starports, the markets, the office buildings, a quaint domicile sitting at the base of a ridge welcomed the return of its denizens, both permanent and temporary.

Vurt pushed past the front door, and Nami blearily followed.

Not even seconds after closing the door behind her, the girl felt herself begin to thaw amongst the warmth of the cramped abode. After spending hours amongst the winter wastes of Ziost, even the simple living room proved pleasurable to Nami's senses. She could see, without the threat of ice invading her sights. She could hear more than the harsh winds grating against her ears. She could smell... something.

Even as she warmed, the girl stood frozen in the center of the living room. There was a peculiar clattering in the kitchenette, and an oddly satisfying aroma filled the air. But before she could process it further, the numbness quickly fled her body, being replaced by an overwhelming pain. Her legs began to tremble. The rod slipped from her hand, impacting against the floor with a solid thud. Her vision began to blur and fade, until finally, she collapsed.

But before she could drop, Vurt snatched ahold of her collar. Despite possessing a rather lithe form, the Nikto managed to hold the girl upright by her robes. Slowly, Nami came to, shaking her head and regaining her bearings.

"Thanks," she quietly offered.

"Hmm," Vurt muttered, still holding the girl upright. Abruptly, the Nikto led the girl over to the couch before almost tossing her onto it. The Sith offered a few moments of his beady stare before stepping out of the living room. As he disappeared down the hall, the clattering continued to emanate from the adjacent kitchenette.

Nami slowly straightened her posture as she sat upright on the couch. Her limbs almost refused to obey her commands, only barely capable of moving without being accompanied by aches and pains. When the girl finally situated herself, she released a heavy sigh of relief, content to simply sink into the cushion as she remained stilled.

Interrupting her, however, was the Trandoshan who just stepped into the room. With a loud clank, Nesk set a bowl on the table in front of the exhausted girl.

Nami could barely lean forward to get a closer look at the murky gray stew that filled the dish. Instead, her eyes bounced between the bowl and the Trandoshan that stood over her. "What is this?"

"Is food," Nesk plainly answered.

"That's it? Just 'food'?"

"Eat," he replied. With that, he simply turned away and stepped back toward the kitchenette. Soon, the girl was alone with her undefined bowl of food.

Yet all she could do was stare at the bubbling contents. Partly liquid. Partly solid. Almost completely lacking in color. A strange gooey mash with an oddly pleasant scent. Nami eyed the spoon beside the bowl, but even thinking about moving toward it made her body ache.

Whether it had been seconds or minutes, Nami did not know, but eventually the Trandoshan returned to the living room, a bowl of his own grasped between his clawed digits. He took a seat next to the bruised and bloodied girl without a second glance.

"Eat," Nesk repeated, firm and direct. "It will not get another meal today."

With that, the Trandoshan went to work, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of the viscous paste into his sharp maw. Nami shifted in her seat before forcing herself forward. Ignoring whatever signals her body sent telling her to stop, the girl reach out and picked up her spoon.

As she wrapped her fingers around the utensil, Nami noticed nearly every one of her knuckles had been scraped, a layer of dried blood gracing each joint. Where or when she received such injuries escaped her. In that moment, it didn't matter. With slow movements, the girl directed the first spoonful of the mystery meal into her mouth. To her surprise, her tongue did not immediately reject it. Instead, she easily swallowed the paste, her sore throat and jaw proving no impediment.

In silence, the two figures on the couch continued their meal. Occasionally, Nami would shoot an glance toward the towering Trandoshan beside her as he hunched over his bowl. The girl's pacing was much more restrained, primarily because her arms refused to move past a certain speed.

Eventually, Vurt returned to the living room, clutching something in his hand. Small. Flat. Reflective. Nami momentarily halted her meal as the Nikto squatted across from her, holding the mirror toward her face. As soon as she saw her reflection, the girl's eyes went wide. At least, as wide as they were capable.

She was utterly disheveled. Battered. There was swelling around her right eye. Her face was bruised. Her lower lip was split, a trail of dried blood hanging beneath the wound.

"You trained with the Jedi, yes?" asked Vurt, his voice possessing the usual icy smoothness. His arm seem locked in place, still holding up the mirror. "Can you mend your wounds? Fully?"

"I... don't..." Nami stammered. "I mean... I never had to..."

"Well, now you must," Vurt replied. Finally, he lowered the mirror. "Your survival depends on it."

"If it cannot push back," Nesk said between bites, "it must push forward."

Nami's head slightly tilted to the side. "So you'd both endorse me… using Jedi techniques?"

"We'd endorse you taking whatever measure necessary to prevent your own death," Vurt plainly stated.

"Wounds slow it down," said Nesk. "Slowness earns it more wounds. If it cannot recover, it will die."

The girl dipped her head. A heavy silence persisted throughout the room, until finally, Nami spoke up, barely above a whisper. "How many students have you two killed?"

The two Sith looked to one another, preserving the quiet as neither spoke.

"None," Vurt said after a pause.

"Ziost kills. Academy kills. Student kills," Nesk added. "Not us."

"If an acolyte who trained under us perished, it is because they did not heed our words," Vurt explained.

"Hard to heed your words… if you barely talk," Nami muttered.

The Nikto replied with a cold, beady stare. "Finish your food. Afterwards, wash up and heal your wounds. Tomorrow requires a clean slate."

"That's it? Just 'heal my wounds'?" Nami asked.

Nesk set his empty bowl on the table in front of him with a sharp clang. "Knew Sith that could mend flesh. Acolyte. Young. If it could, so can small thing."

Vurt quickly straightened out his posture before stepping back toward the hall that departed the living room. Nesk lifted himself from the couch, and carried his empty dish back into the kitchenette.

Soon Nami was by her lonesome, sitting on the couch, staring into what remained of her meal.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Nami found herself in the cramped bathroom of her instructors' humble abode. Polished surfaces, sharp angles, dark forms under brilliant lights, the Imperial designs were growing more and more familiar to the ex-Jedi with each day. Standing in front of the room's modest sink, the girl met the haggard gaze of her own reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. Her face was cut. Bruised. Stained. And without words, it spoke. Of pain. Of perseverance. Of survival. Of equal parts failure and success.

The stupor of her walk amongst the wastes having finally faded, Nami carefully examined her being, poking and prodding the various wounds that graced her countenance. She flashed her teeth, only to see them stained with the same red that marked her skin. She pulled back her eyelids, only to stare at her own bloodshot eyes.

With a heavy sigh, Nami turned on the sink's faucet. A steady stream of water began to pour, accompanied by a continuous ringing in the girl's ear. With no distinct ritual or pattern, she started to cup the water in her hands before bringing it to her face. The dried blood began to wash away, but the underlying injuries remained.

Nami continued to stare at her reflection, now with a determined glint in her eye. She drew and released deep, calm breaths. Finally, the girl closed her eyes.

"You can do this, Nami," she whispered. "You can do this."

Once more, she brought her hands to her face, only this time they carried no water. Instead, she pressed her palms against her battered skin and focused her mind. In that moment, that was all she could do. She knew little of the process, only the intended result. In her mind, she could see the swelling fade, see the split flesh mending itself. A hum filled the air as she channeled the Force through her digits. And yet, when she lowered her hands, Nami was greeted with the same visage she had seen moments before. Her wounds remained.

But she would not relent.

* * *

There was a soft squeal as the shuttle touched down upon its landing struts. Already, Vowrawn began to rise from his seat, standing and patting down his lavish robes. Syrosk moved at a suitably slower pace, but made a point to reach the rear of the vessel where the entrance ramp would eventually lower. From there he waited, until the alien felt a hand fall upon his shoulder. Turning toward his flank, he found the Dark Councilor standing with a wide smile plastered across his face.

"Do try to make it look like you actually want to be here, Syrosk," said Vowrawn, jovial as ever in his delivery. The horned Sith remained silent as he shrugged off the Pureblood's grip.

"I'm never been a fan of lavish displays or gatherings," Syrosk rasped as he returned his gaze toward the door. "And if I'm to spot your assassin, I require a focused mind."

"Very well," offered Vowrawn alongside the softest of sighs. "Just wouldn't want you to stand out, is all."

Syrosk slowly craned his neck back toward the Dark Councilor, his brow arched to the fullest. "In case you have noticed, I stand out no matter where I go."

"Well, you might be pleasantly surprised."

Before Syrosk could respond, the back of the shuttle began to fold outwards, the 'wall' slowly turning into the ship's entrance and exit ramp. Before the slab of gray metal had finished its descent, the alien had received his first glimpse at what lay ahead. A narrow pathway led away from the landing pad and toward a grand building. Though it did not reach as high as the many spires and skyscrapers that dotted Kaas City, nor did it possess the raw magnificence of the Citadel, the structure that comprised the banquet hall was more than capable of catching the eye.

Wider than it was tall, the building possessed the same outward appearance as most Imperial structures. Muted grays and blacks made up the entirety of the architecture. A subtle blue luminescence peeked from behind the windows that complimented the perpetually overcast skies above. Smooth surfaces met at angular junctions, with just enough flourishes to distinguish it from a barracks or weapons depot.

But as the entrance ramp touched the ground, Syrosk was met with a sight far more impressive than any feat of architectural design. Gathering amongst the plaza in front of the banquet hall were those set to be in attendance, beings possessing a myriad of colors and shapes. Standing in the heart of the Sith Empire were more than just Humans and Purebloods, all dressed in their most formal attire.

Syrosk quickly snapped out of his momentary stupor as he remembered his purpose. Before taking a single step, he made sure to scan the bustling scene. The military police were sufficiently present, armor-clad, rifles in hand, and patrolling the surrounding area. Flanking the entrance to the banquet hall, Syrosk spotted a pair of Imperial Guardsmen. Red-robed, masked, exponents of martial combat, they were tasked with the protection of the Dark Council and the Emperor himself, even without the gift of Force-sensitivity.

A low sigh slipped past the alien's lips, relieved that Vowrawn hadn't eschewed all security measures. But before he could react further, the aged Pureblood had already begun his descent of the shuttle's ramp. Syrosk quickly moved to catch up, as much as his uneven gait allowed him, and walked alongside Vowrawn's flank. As the pair approached the banquet hall, the horned alien continued to survey his surroundings, whilst Vowrawn maintained his utterly relaxed demeanor.

Their path went unobstructed for mere moments before one of the members of the military police rushed over. Black-clad and garbed head to toe in plated armor, the officer was practically a front-line soldier stationed to defend the capital city. Upon reaching the two elder Sith, the Imperial bent forward to offer the deepest possible bow.

"My lords," he quickly said, facemask still all but parallel with the floor of the landing pad.

"You may rise," Vowrawn warmly offered. Not a moment later, he did so.

"Thank you, my lord," the rifleman hastily replied. "All arrangements have been made. The banquet hall is secure and ready to receive you."

"Excellent work, officer," said Vowrawn alongside a polite nod of his head. The helmed man replied with a deep nod of his own before dashing off toward the crowd.

"Why is it the word 'arrangements' leaves on odd taste in the mouth?" asked Syrosk as he shot the Pureblood a sidewards glance.

Vowrawn offered a soft chuckle as he took his first steps toward the gathering ahead, Syrosk keeping pace. "I do not know, but I surely hope your palate sorts itself by the time we're served the first course." The Pureblood paused before shooting his guest a quick glance. "Pay it no mind, Syrosk. I simply desired a certain table. There's a nice spot that lets you really appreciate the aesthetics of the room."

"I take it this isn't your first banquet here," Syrosk rasped.

"Oh ho, of course not," Vowrawn quickly replied. "Why, not too long ago we held a memorial dinner for Darth Azamin."

"Didn't know Sith got memorials."

"They usually don't, but occasionally, a fallen Dark Councilor's successor likes to ascend to their position on a platform of respect," Vowrawn explained. "Such was the case with Decimus."

"Considering the successor's usual involvement with the 'falling', I imagine the food and festivities take away a bit of the sting," Syrosk muttered.

"I can assure you, Azamin's death came at the hands of Jedi, not his successor," Vowrawn stated, still wearing his usual smile.

"An oddly specific denial."

A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "My entire being relies on specifics, Syrosk. You ought to know that by now."

The pair continued, passing a patrol of military police and on the threshold of the gathered crowd of attendees. Up close, the diversity present was even more striking to the horned alien. There was a fair share of the typical Humans and Purebloods, officers and Sith, but mingling with them were beings rarely seen on Imperial soil without chains around their wrists. A Twi'lek. A Chagrian. A Neimoidian. A Rattataki. Beings that stood out from their Imperial hosts just as much, if not more than the horned Sith.

With each passing moment, more and more people took notice of the approaching Dark Councilor. What followed was an outpouring of warmth and welcomes, each figure seemingly possessing a familiarity with Vowrawn no matter their station or species. The aged Pureblood ingratiated himself into the crowd without a missed beat, greeting each figure before him. Bows, handshakes, subtle nods, everyone warranted a specific response when their eyes met with those of the Dark Councilor. And as Vowrawn practically slinked from person to person, Syrosk struggled to stay by his side.

The air was filled with the constant muttering and conversations of all who had gathered for the banquet. But to Syrosk, it was nothing but a constant droning in his ears, sound without substance. He heard not Vowrawn's words. He heard not his own name as the Councilor introduced him to his associates. Such noise was unimportant. Syrosk had his duty, and as such, filtered out all but the most integral information from his senses. He moved through the crowd like a pebble swept up in the current of a stream, no agency of his own. He instead focused on reaching out with his mind. He closed his eyes, sampling the surface thoughts of the myriad of beings that surrounded him. But before he made even a modicum of progress, his concentration was broken by Vowrawn elbowing his side.

Syrosk opened his eyes to find the Pureblood leaning in close.

"Not now," Vowrawn whispered. "I would never be attacked out here. It would be best... if you used this time to ingratiate yourself."

Without another word, the Dark Councilor pushed away, returning to his previous rounds of meeting and greeting the other attendees of the banquet. Eventually, the Pureblood stood before a Human, aged, prim and proper, but absent the garb or decorum of a true Imperial.

"Syrosk, I'd like you to meet Agden Frels," Vowrawn introduced. "He owns a considerable chain of manufactories on Balmorra. He was also one of the first to willingly cast off the shackles of the Republic."

The balding gentleman offered a quick nod. "It's a shame some of my former associates could not see obvious benefits of Imperial oversight." The factory owner turned to the horned alien, looking up and down his significant frame. "I take it by your attire that you, too, are a Sith."

Syrosk was momentarily confused by the utter lack of venom lacing the words he had often heard before. "Yes," he eventually managed to get out. "I am."

"Indeed," Vowrawn continued. "In fact, he leads an organization within my Sphere. The Executors of Logistics. As we speak, three of his apprentices are on route to Balmorra to ensure… stability in these trying times."

The alien thought to correct his superior, but was cut off by the magnate's reply.

"Well, Lord Syrosk, you've not only my respect, but my sincerest thanks and appreciation."

The Human dipped his head, and Syrosk hesitantly did the same. Once more the Executor was unable to speak as Vowrawn was once more on the move. Syrosk followed, until he found himself standing before a Human-like figure that matched him in height and bulk. His skin was utterly pale, and marked with black tribal tattoos. The Rattataki's countenance was at odds with the formal suit encasing his sturdy frame.

"Karnem," Vowrawn spoke, extending a hand toward the pale figure. The man accepted and replied with a hearty shake. As the Dark Councilor retrieved his hand, he swept it toward the flanking Sith. "This is Lord Syrosk, an associate of mine. Syrosk, you had an apprentice who was a Rattataki, did you not?"

"Correct," said the horned alien after a pause. "Unfortunately… she perished in the final hours of the war."

"Such a shame, that was," Vowrawn added, momentarily adopting a tone of solemnity. One that was soon abandoned for the familiar pleasantness. "Karnem is one of the premier suppliers of organic labor for the Empire."

The process continued. Vowrawn would introduce Syrosk to the various attendees, each with ties to Production and Logistics. Factory owners. Transit overseers. Slavers. Officers. Even Sith. And with each introduction, the Dark Councilor always seemed capable of making Syrosk relevant. His position. His duty. His heritage. In the end, all who met with the horned alien parted with respect rather than disdain.

And after meeting with the dozens of individuals populating the plaza, by Vowrawn's word and his word alone, did the banquet commence. Until his call, all were content to stand amidst the Kaas City skyline, risking the fall of the inevitable rain. It took the blessing of a Dark Councilor to move them inside.

Thus, one of the twelve most influential Sith in the Empire led the infatuated crowd into the banquet hall, Syrosk securely by his side. As they approached, the pair of Guardsmen flanking the entrance tapped the base of their staves against the ground before taking a knee. In that pose they remained, until the final attendee passed the structure's threshold. Rising to their feet, the red-clad protectors entered the building before sealing the doors behind them. Outside, the military police continued to patrol the surrounding plaza.

Inside, the crowd was greeted with the sight of regality and grandeur. The open foyer that welcomed them was decorated with the most vibrant of bannisters and rugs baring symbols of the Empire. Magnificent columns stretched toward the high ceilings, with expertly crafted sculptures of figures in heroic poses placed between. And every line of every design seemed to lead the eye toward the dining room ahead.

A pair of large double-doors were splayed open, offering the attendees an overt invitation. One they readily accepted.

Vowrawn and Syrosk were the first to step into the banquet hall proper. The room that received them was an extension of foyer's designs, redistributed amongst a large, circular chamber. The floor was home to numerous tables, more than capable of accommodating the group of dozens. The furnishings were situated around a raised dais in the center of the room that acted as a stage. Above, a dazzling cluster of metalwork and crystals illuminated the room, a chandelier held aloft via repulsors rather than connecting with the domed ceiling.

As more and more of the attendees entered the chamber, they dispersed and sought out their assigned seats. Each of the rounded tables were capable of accommodating up to five diners, but one particular arrangement tucked away in the northeastern quadrant of the room possessed only two chairs. One for Vowrawn. One for Syrosk.

The horned alien kept his wits about him as he and his boss sat at their table, perpetually scanning the other attendees with his focused gaze. Sith were uncommon amongst the guests, only six amidst the dozens of others. At least, only six in the traditional garb of black robes, saber hilts clipped to their waists. No security, but for the two Guardsmen flanking the exit, practically on the opposite side of the room. Anyone standing on the dais would be exposed from all angles.

"So, first impressions?" Vowrawn spoke up, barely above a whisper. Despite having the entirety of the table to themselves, the Pureblood and the alien sat to each other's side, both facing toward the chamber's center.

"Even with the sharpest reaction time, it would take too long for the Guardsmen to make their way over here in the event of an attack," Syrosk replied, almost matter-of-factly. "Fixture above the dais. A saboteur could disable the repulsors to drop it on anyone underneath. Although you're not the most skilled combatant, you've enough command of the Force to halt its descent. But that could still be used as a distraction while the assassin makes their move."

"I was asking more along the lines of décor, but I suppose your observations were nonetheless prudent," said Vowrawn, flashing a grin.

"You'll find I'm not easily moved by showings of grandeur," Syrosk rasped. "I lived before the Great War. I remember the feasts, the parades, the displays that reinforced the idea of our superiority and eventual victory, before we had even revealed ourselves to the galaxy. Of course, I wasn't invited to such celebrations."

"And yet, here you are. Guest of a Dark Councilor, sitting amongst some of the Production and Logistics' elite."

The alien offered a soft harrumph as he continued to pan his gaze across the room. Eventually, Syrosk arched his brow as he looked past the attendees and finally began to take in the room itself. "I don't really see the significance of this spot. Seems like the 'aesthetics' would be the same no matter where one sat."

"I'm a man who finds beauty in the arrangement of parts, rather than the sum of an entire form," Vowrawn stated, casting his gaze across the grand chamber.

Syrosk was about to speak, but the arrival of more persons caught his attention. Opposite the side of the room the guests had entered from, servers and wait-staff began to enter through another set of doors. As a rather unassuming Human approached his table, Syrosk kept a hand at his side, just within reach of his lightsaber.

The server stood across from the two Sith, crisp attire layered upon his slight frame. His face was soft, yet seemed to easily maintain its composure in the presence of the Dark Councilor. In fact, the two met eyes, and supplied one another a subtle nod. Afterwards, the server focused his attention on the horned alien.

"My lord," he began, "someone will arrive take your order soon. However, I wanted to inquire as to whether you would enjoy an after-dinner drink following your meal. I'm to understand you enjoy Bothan Brandy, and we've a cask that we would be happy to serve if you so desired."

Syrosk turned toward the Pureblood to his side, who remained silently coy. With a sigh, the alien nodded. "Fine."

The server offered a quick nod of his own and ducked away, eventually disappearing into the room beyond the second set of doors. Meanwhile, Syrosk continue to give his boss a sideward glance.

"Trouble, Syrosk?" Vowrawn politely asked.

There was a silence.

"No... none at all."

The evening proceeded without a fuss. Another server approached the pair, detailing the available food and drink throughout the banquet. Vowrawn made the effort of ordering for both himself and his associate. The air was filled with the hum of chatter as the various titans of industry and logistics conversed throughout the room, patiently awaiting the arrival of their first course.

Meanwhile, Syrosk remained perfectly silent. He focused his thoughts, reaching out to the others in the banquet hall, this time uninterrupted by the Dark Councilor. He started with those possessing untrained minds. In return, he received only banal musings and the inner monologues of men and women carefully choosing their next words amidst their contemporaries. Not a single violent thought amongst them. The occasional hint of avarice and ambition typical of a professional Imperial, but nothing that interested Syrosk.

He moved to the various Sith in attendance. With a careful comb, he sifted through the surface thoughts of the Force-sensitive Humans and Purebloods in the room, taking care not to alert them to his intrusion. The results were the same. Few things good within their heads, but nothing on par with assassinating a Dark Councilor. Syrosk would likely have to dig deeper to uncover any true intentions, but he would be unable to regardless as he found a dish placed in front of him.

The same soup Vowrawn had ordered for himself glistened under the banquet hall's lights, a vibrant red pool of decadence. Not a moment after the bowls were placed before the two Sith, another server was filling their glasses with wine. The same orchestration of moving dishes and bodies filled the entirety of the chamber, as each individual was served in the same way. The horned alien struggled to keep up with the constant motion, intent on not letting a single detail escape his attention.

"If you keep staring like that, your soup's going to cool," Vowrawn stated. As if to punctuate his jocular words, he brought a spoonful of the steaming liquid to his equally red lips.

"Each new course brings new moving parts," Syrosk rasped. "The perfect time to strike."

Vowrawn swallowed his soup before gently lowering the spoon. "On the contrary, the perfect time would be when I'm giving my speech before the next course. After all, that is when I would act."

"But that would imply the person moving against you is operating on your level."

"If they weren't, I never would have permitted them to make it this far."

Syrosk leaned back in his chair. "Of course, the assassin is here because you allowed them to be, didn't you?"

The Pureblood gripped his napkin, gently dabbing his lips. "What is one of the first lessons a Force-user learns?"

"Depends on the teacher," Syrosk plainly stated.

The Dark Councilor released a soft chuckle. "One should not seek to move the motionless, not when you've the opportunity to guide that which is already in motion."

Syrosk gave of a low sigh. "You wanted to make a show of it, didn't you? You always intended to stop the assassination, right here, in front of these people."

Vowrawn slowly picked up his glass and brought it to his lips, taking a sip of his wine. Afterward, he simply gazed into the dark red beverage. "I have a philosophy. A simple one at that. Everything should have a purpose. Every life. Every death. Too many Sith nowadays, they simply act, caring not for the true consequences of their successes or failures. Suppose someone intends to take your life. And suppose they fail. Afterwards, they've nothing to show for it, and all you can say is that you're still alive. Such is the tragedy of the Sith. The erasure of meaning. But right now, someone has made the effort. Someone has sent an agent to end my life. What better sign of respect, than to give their failure meaning? To gain, rather than lose or stagnate, from death?"

Without another word, the Dark Councilor set his drink down and slowly rose from his chair. With a subtle wave of his hand, he told Syrosk to remain seated. He complied. The Pureblood approached the central dais, the room quieting with each step he took. Soon, all eyes were on Vowrawn as he ascended, as he stood above each and every person surrounding him. The Dark Councilor was all smiles as he clasped his hands together.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Production and Logistics…" he began.

As the first word of their lord and master reached their ears, every individual in the room halted their meal. Syrosk, meanwhile, focused on everything but the Dark Councilor. Vowrawn started with pleasantries, welcoming each and every person in attendance. From there, he moved onto details of statistics and performances, selling ideas the crowd had long since bought into, but were more than ready to hear pitched to them yet again. Meanwhile, Syrosk scanned his surroundings with both his eyes and his mind. All was silent, but for the Dark Councilor's words. All was motionless, but for the Pureblood's elaborate gestures. Vowrawn would occasionally turn to focus on each section of the crowd, but primarily kept himself facing the Guardsmen protecting the primary entrance.

Finally, an errant movement. To Syrosk's right and to Vowrawn's rear, a dark figure rose from his seat. A man clad in black robes. A Sith. He was already on the move, charging toward the Dark Councilor, retrieving the metallic hilt from his belt. And with a flick of his wrist, a crimson beam began to emerge from its tip.

Time slowed to crawl. Syrosk may have been old, but his senses were sharp, and his body able. The blade of plasma had not even fully extended by the time the horned alien rose from his seat. The attacker was far, with many tables separating him from Syrosk. The same could not be said of the assassin and his target.

Syrosk was upright, standing on legs both organic and prosthetic. He reached toward his waist, but instead of gripping his lightsaber, he instead grabbed the rim of his bowl of soup. The alien pulled his arm back, spilling the contents onto the floor, before throwing the dish across the room.

The saucer soared through the air with an elegant arc, guided by the Force. Moments before it could reach its target, the assassin raised his saber to intercede. The beam of plasma, however, merely sliced right through the dish, allowing the two molten halves to continue their journey straight into the Sith's face. The bifurcated saucer raked across the assassin's flesh, blinding him, and sending a bone-chilling howl across the chamber.

Only now did others begin to react. Cries and shouts emanated from the attendees. Other Sith rushed to their feet. But they could not match the horned alien already on the move. With a grace contrasting his usual uneven gait, Syrosk leapt from table to table, his own lightsaber baring its harsh redness, finally descending upon the staggered assassin. In one powerful move, the Executor brought his weight down upon the Sith, forcing him to the ground before plunging his blade through the attacker's heart.

The dark figure released a brief spasm before going completely motionless. Only now could Syrosk get a clear picture of the assassin. Male. Young. Too young. Practically fresh out of the Academy. Vowrawn was right. An agent of some other master's will.

Slowly, Syrosk lifted himself from the ground, withdrawing his blade before returning his saber to his belt. Immediately, the alien was assaulted with hushed whispers and wandering thoughts. As he spun around, all eyes were on him instead of the Dark Councilor. The noise continued, growing in volume, growing in clarity. It soon became clear, that only a single word rest on the tongues and minds of those surrounding him. Syrosk. Syrosk. Syrosk.

Finally, the horned alien looked up toward the dais, only to see Vowrawn sporting his usual smile.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

The banquet hall was filled with a hushed clamor, the various guests continuing to share panicked whispers with one another. Following the attack, there was little in the way of motion. The scene had all but stilled, the only movement stemming from the pair of Guardsmen rushing to Vowrawn's flanks. But even as the red-clad warriors bared their staves, panning their hidden gazes about the chamber, the Councilor and his Executor simply locked eyes with one another. The alien's, sharp as ever. The Pureblood's, absent the slightest evidence of fear or discomfort.

Slowly, Vowrawn lifted his palms into the air, immediately catching the attention of the surrounding crowd. The whispers came to an immediate halt, and all was silent.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is no need to be alarmed," the Dark Councilor spoke, his soothing words reaching each and every ear in the banquet hall. The diners suitably enraptured, the Pureblood finally lowered his hands. "It would seem that one of our guests was an assassin intent on taking my life. Fortunately, my faithful Executor foiled this crass and vulgar action. Of course, I've only come to expect such effectiveness out of one such as Lord Syrosk." Vowrawn reaffirmed his gaze upon the horned alien. "Nevertheless, his actions tonight are to be commended."

The Councilor punctuated his words with a dip of his head, before transitioning into a full bow. One by one, the other occupants of the banquet hall did the same, until all had lowered themselves before the horned alien. Factory owners. Officers. Even fellow Sith. As Syrosk found himself the last remaining upright figure, there was a slight twitch in his eye. Without the slightest of efforts, the alien could read the surface-level thoughts and emotions of the crowd. Respect. Adulation. Esteem. All towards him.

And yet, Syrosk continued to wear a dulled scowl upon his wrinkled visage.

When the Dark Councilor finally lifted his head, he found his subordinate on the move. And as more and more guests finished their bows, they too witnessed the alien Sith trudge toward the banquet hall's entrance.

"If able, I'd ask everyone to return to their seats," Vowrawn spoke up. "I assure you, these matters will be handled and our evening can resume with utmost haste."

The Pureblood took a step toward his exiting subordinate, but was halted as one of the Guardsmen held out a hand. Vowrawn narrowed his gaze before leaning in close to the helmed figure.

"I am no longer in danger," he whispered. The usual charm was present in the Councilor's voice, but it possessed a firmness backing each word. "Guard the doors and have someone deal with the body. I will return shortly."

With that, Vowrawn sidestepped the Guardsman and moved off the dais. As the two elder Sith made their way out of the banquet hall, the occupants were left dumfounded, but nonetheless heeded the Councilor's words and returned to their seats.

A slow chase, Syrosk had returned to his usual uneven gait, only the slightest haste in his steps. But before reaching the building's exit, the Executor paused. Fists clenching and unclenching, the alien began to pace before the doors as his eyes grew ever narrower.

"Syrosk," Vowrawn called out, maintaining his regal presence. "You seem troubled."

The alien snapped his sharpened gaze toward the Councilor. "Troubled?" Syrosk's usual rasp bordered on a growl, but was restrained just enough to ensure his words did not reach into the adjacent chamber. "This isn't how things were supposed to go."

"On the contrary," Vowrawn began, casually closing the gap between himself and his subordinate, ever warm in his delivery. "I don't think things could have gone any better."

"You know what I mean," Syrosk shot back. "The publicity. The spectacle. Executor Zero wasn't supposed to officially exist. People were to think me consultant, and now you have me playing the hero? Day one, I said no games, Vowrawn."

A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "Do not misinterpret the pleasure I derive from proceedings such as these. This was no game, Syrosk. All that transpired was absolutely necessary."

Syrosk's nostrils flared. "Common words..."

"…from an uncommon Sith," said Vowrawn. "Strategy revolves around uncertainty. As soon as new data presents itself, it would foolish not to seek an alternate course of action. Your involvement with the Executors cannot be kept a secret forever. The people need to know you as I know you. A Sith of worth."

"And you do so by staging an assassination?"

"I staged nothing," Vowrawn admitted. "There was simply a confluence of events to be taken advantage of. I was a target. The attack was inevitable. I simply provided venue to exploit that inevitability. And now Lord Syrosk will not only be known as an Executor, but as someone who saved the life of a Dark Councilor."

"I never wanted that designation," the alien rasped. "I never wanted to be a public figure."

"I understand your trepidation, Syrosk. But this is not like before," said Vowrawn. "In the past, the public eye may have meant your death. But now, it shall be your sanctum. You've been given value. You've been assigned risk. No one will dare move against you, else they move against me."

A harrumph slipped past Syrosk's lips. "Tonight has obviously proven that not everyone is unwilling to move against you."

"But they failed," Vowrawn quickly replied. "And that failure shall not go unnoticed. And neither shall your success.

There was a pause as silence hung heavy in the air. The two Sith met one another's gaze, both unyielding. The permanent scowl versus the unwavering grin. Two figures, powerful in their own rights, similar yet contrasting in all aspects.

Finally, the silence was broken by the alien releasing a low sigh. "You didn't have to keep me in the dark."

"Perhaps," Vowrawn replied. "I wasn't sure how you'd react. Given your response here, you'll understand if I kept things from you."

"I don't need to be tricked into saving my boss's life. I don't need to be tricked into keeping the Executors or the Empire running," Syrosk declared. "If you need me to, I will act. But I will not be treated as some unwitting pawn."

"Of course, Syrosk," Vowrawn offered alongside a polite dip of his head. "From now on, full disclosure." The Dark Councilor swept his arm toward the dining hall. "Now come, the night is not yet over, and we've a meal to finish."

Syrosk narrowed his gaze, drawing and releasing a heavy breath. "What was his name?"

"Pardon?"

"The boy. The assassin. You knew every invitee, so who was he?" asked Syrosk.

"Mevik," Vowrawn plainly replied. "Recent apprentice to Darth Tyram. The master couldn't make it himself, so he sent the student in his stead… or so the boy claimed."

"Then we know who was responsible for the attack," said Syrosk.

Darth Vowrawn placed a soft hand on the horned Sith's back, guiding him back toward the dining room. "We cannot be too sure. After all, you never know when people might be manipulating things. But that's a matter for the investigators to handle."

Syrosk remained silent as his boss gently pushed him toward the gathered masses patiently waiting for their return. Through the parted doors, he could see the waitstaff righting the tables and chairs that had been upset by the incident. And as the pair passed the threshold of the chamber, they were passed by an Imperial Guardsman with the body of Vowrawn's attacker slung over his shoulder.

The Executor turned for but a moment, briefly meeting his gaze with the scarred, lifeless eyes of the young Human.

* * *

The now-familiar wastes of Ziost had calmed. The harsh, frosted winds had faded, in their place only the gentle falling of snow. Once more abandoning the relative comforts of the city, instructor and student trained amidst the cold and gray landscape.

Vurt paced back and forth, just enough motion to keep the falling snow from settling upon his shoulders. But no matter where he stood, the noseless, leathery humanoid's gaze fell upon the same spot. In front of the Sith was what appeared to be an orb of frost, a snowball as tall as he. The icy flakes that fell from the sky would touch the sphere, adhere to it, and ever so slightly increase its mass.

"Force-sensitivity is more than just the ability to affect the world around you," Vurt spoke to the large snowball, continuing his pacing. "It is also the ability to control the self. The average Sith can make one meal sustain them for two standard rotations. For every hour of rest, they can stay active for ten. A true master can fully sate themselves with the Force, going without food, water, or sleep entirely. By controlling the Force, by controlling your body, you should be able to endure the elements, resist poisons, prevent diseases..."

As the Nikto paused his words, he made his way closer to the ball of snow. Standing before it, he offered the quick swat of his backhand. The impact knocked a clean hole in the side of the orb. Hollow, the sphere was more akin to an egg. One that had just been cracked.

Through the hole, Vurt stared at the young girl inside with his beady gaze. Nami stood within the orb, arms stretched out to her side. Channeling the Force, it was the ex-Jedi's telekinetic barrier that gave the falling snow structure and shape.

"…and you should certainly be able to mend minor wounds of the flesh," Vurt continued.

Inside the snowball, Nami struggled to maintain her concentration, arms rigid yet shivering. Upon the girl's face were the marks of the previous trial, faded cuts and bruises, only half-healed.

"I did… my best," the girl stated. Her words were slowed, wrought by the ever present cold that surrounded her as well as her attempts to maintain her concentration.

"Then your best wasn't good enough," Vurt replied.

Finally, the girl's arms collapsed. As her limbs fell, so did the construct of snow surrounding her. The orb quickly became a sheet that covered Nami's head and shoulders as the rest pooled around her feet.

"I'm… sorry," the girl muttered, head dipped.

The Nikto took another step forward, barely any gap separating the instructor from the student. Despite possessing an average height, the Sith practically loomed over the ex-Jedi through presence alone. Without a word, he batted off the snow that graced Nami's shoulders before placing a finger beneath the girl's chin. Manually lifting her head, the alien locked eyes with the Human.

"Never apologize," Vurt declared, voice as chilled as the surrounding wastes. "No one cares to hear it."

Nami tried to look away, but the Sith's grip on her jaw was too great. She was forced to meet the Nikto's enduring, beady glare.

"It is impossible to fail me… to fail Nesk," Vurt continued. "You can only fail yourself. Perfection will always be beyond your reach, but it falls to you to improve. To get better. To get stronger. We can provide the means to facilitate that improvement, that strength, but you must make the effort. It is your fault, and yours alone, if you fail. But the same goes for success. I don't want your 'sorry's. I don't want your respect. All I want, is for you to act. Do, until you can do no longer, so that you do better next time. Understand?"

The girl nodded, even as the Sith continued to hold her chin.

"Good." With that, Vurt removed his hand from Nami's face. Instead, he focused on lifting her arms and returning them to their outright position. "You chose to walk the path of discipline. You need endurance and concentration. If you lack either, you will continue to fail. If you continue to fail, you will die. Now, try again."

Nami took a deep breath, holding it even as the chilled air stung her chest. Arms stretched, fingers spread, the girl closed her eyes and began to channel the Force. Eventually, the first snowflake above the Nami's head came to a stop. Then another. Then another. Soon, a curved sheet of frost began to take shape, outlining the invisible barrier that surrounded the ex-Jedi.

* * *

A dazzling tunnel of swirling blue light presented itself as the _Fury_ traveled through hyperspace. Asher manned the pilot's chair, the ship's droid politely standing in the corner of the cockpit. There, the metallic being patiently waited, eager to receive a new order from one of its masters.

From one of the terminals lining the cockpit, a ping rang out, signaling the _Fury_'s progress.

Asher went to work, gliding his hands across the various controls in front of him, checking each readout and dial that spanned the forward console. Soon, the swirling tunnel surrounding the vessel collapsed, and the streaking stars returned to their dotted forms upon the black canvas of space. In a matter of moments, the _Fury_ had slowed from its faster-than-light speeds to a gentle drift as it dropped back into realspace.

Sitting amongst the void, the Sith vessel faced its destination. Balmorra.

The distant orb was painted with large splotches of brown and blue, grand continents and oceans presenting themselves in equal measure. White swirls and patches dotted every hemisphere, a cloudy atmosphere untainted by the factory world below. Floating amongst its four moons, the planet was unremarkable at such a distance, despite the key role it played in the galactic scene.

Soon, Asher was joined by his fellows in the _Fury_'s cockpit. Fay stepped inside, followed by Graves, each peering out the forward viewports alongside the burned Sith.

"So we've finally arrived," Graves commented.

"Not quite," said Asher. Rising from his seat, the wrapped Sith jut a thumb toward the console as he turned his attention toward the droid. "ALD, take over."

"At once, master!" The metallic being wasted no time carefully stepping around each of the Sith, taking Asher's place in the chair. Extending a cable from its chest, the droid plugged itself directly into the terminal as its hands took hold of the controls.

Graves eyed the burned Sith as he joined the pair near the rear wall of the cockpit. "You don't want to take us in?"

"The droid can handle it," Asher replied, offering a brief wafting of his hand. "I don't like having to talk with the flight officers planetside when landing in controlled territory."

"And here I thought you never passed up the chance to talk," Fay offered, a slight curl upon her lips.

Asher gave an exaggerated shrug. "Better than being the brooding Sith who never unfolds their arms."

"That's debatable," said Fay, arms firmly crossed. "Besides, I don't brood."

"Of course you don't," Asher replied, adopting a slight grin. The burned Sith leaned against the back wall, making sure not to inadvertently press any of the buttons or switches that lined it. Standing beside the tall woman, he loosely folded his arms across his chest, peering out the forward viewport.

Graves quietly panned his gaze between the other two, before eventually crossing his arms himself.

A subtle hum rang out throughout the _Fury_ as the sublight engines powered up. In the hands of the mechanical pilot, the vessel made its way toward the planet ahead, the three Sith patiently watching as the world grew closer and closer with each passing moment.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

The black and gray _Fury_ cut through the air as it traversed the Balmorran skies. High above the sunlit lands, the vessel's engines shined a bright crimson as they propelled the Sith toward their destination.

The terrain below was a mix of sprawling plains and jagged mountains, stone erupting from the ground in the form of countless spires and ridges. Flatlands gave way to sharp canyons, before giving way to equally sharp peaks. And spread throughout the world, the constructs of industry. Factories the size of small towns dotted the landscape, half-buried or hidden by the irregular terrain. But as the _Fury_ flew over the various manufactories, not all were in prime condition, nor were they the only structures populating the world.

Despite the end of the war, the great conflict's influence still graced the planet's surface. While some installations continued their production, others had been abandoned or outright destroyed. Complementing the natural valleys and canyons were the pock marks wrought by bombing runs as fresh as a few months prior. Alongside the production facilities, military outposts belonging to both great powers lay in fortified positions. But despite their contrasting designs, now they had only a single brand of occupants.

Gazing out the forward viewports, the Sith caught a glimpse of each point of interest for but a moment before it passed under with a blur. The mechanical pilot effortlessly guided the _Fury_, maintaining a constant speed even as it silently communicated with the various flight officers on the ground.

The world was of a monotonous diversity. Despite the broad range of landscapes and structures, they quickly began to repeat themselves. More valleys and ridges. More manufactories. More military outposts. The only true divergence came in the form of an approaching city. And yet, it was simply a continuation of all that surrounded it.

Nestled within the embrace of a box canyon, a place not wholly purposed with the production or usage of munitions. Buildings of mostly-Imperial make filled the stone ravine. The edges of the canyon were lined with a mixture of turrets and cranes, pointing outward and inward respectively. And deep within the protected city, a starport ready to receive any travelers.

And yet, just like everything that preceded it, the _Fury_ flew on by.

"Uh, ALD, you passed over the city," Asher spoke up.

"That was Sobrik, master," replied the droid, still facing forward. "I've been informed that Commander Rederick currently resides, and wishes to meet, within Imperial Forward Outpost XT-25. That is where we are to land."

The burned Sith released a drawn out sigh. "Oh, great. An outpost. Looks like I'm sleeping on the ship."

Fay offered her teammate a sidewards glance. "Was there any circumstance in which you wouldn't opt to sleep on the ship?"

"Fair point," Asher replied. "We did decide that I got master bedroom, right? Even after the renovations?"

"Even if we didn't, I wouldn't waste the energy arguing," Fay plainly stated.

A smirk crept across the burned Sith's lips. "Good enough for me."

"I'm comfortable wherever," said Graves.

"I'd imagine so." Asher paused. "Wait, do you even need to sleep?"

"Just because I can't feel doesn't mean my body doesn't need rest," Graves explained.

Asher tilted his head. "Yeah, but, how can you tell when you're tired? Tired is a feeling, right?"

The scarred Sith offered a brief shrug. "Eventually, my body just stops moving. I try to get some sleep before that happens."

There was a lull as Asher opened his mouth to speak, but no words sprung forth. Instead, he simply stood in silence, unable to find the proper response. Just as the quiet all but consumed the cockpit, the mechanical pilot perked up.

"Masters," said ALD. "We've almost reached our destination."

The Sith looked past the droid, scanning the horizon beyond the _Fury_'s forward viewports. As the vessel slowed its approach, the trio were greeted with the sight of an approaching Imperial outpost. The small base pressed against the base of a mountain ridge, far from pristine yet lacking the scars of similar installations.

"Commander Rederick is expecting you," ALD continued. "He wishes to meet the moment you arrive."

"Then we shouldn't waste any time," said Fay.

The three Sith pushed themselves off the rear wall, making their way out of the cockpit as the droid went to work setting the ship down. Asher, Fay, and Graves passed through the central room, connecting corridors, and rear bulkhead door. Standing in the cramped chamber beyond, nothing but a series of stairs and a still-raised entrance ramp lay before them.

"Well, this certainly feels familiar," Asher muttered. "Standing around, about to throw ourselves into the unknown. Only now we've traded pirates for rebels."

"How do you think the two compare?" asked Graves.

"Well, there are a number of factors and variables at play…"

"The most integral being that these rebels are based on a planet that practically provided half the munitions used in the Great War," Fay explained. "Blasters, explosives, battledroids… just what you need to keep the fight going."

"And of course, some Sith would be more than happy to let it continue," said Asher.

"But we're not those Sith," Graves declared.

"That we are not," Fay concluded.

There was a soft squeal and a gentle shake as the _Fury_ touched the ground. A sharp ping rang out from the nearby terminal, signaling an 'all-clear'. Without another moment of hesitation, Graves tapped the entrance ramp's control and the slab of metal began its slow descent. As the dense lip of the ramp touched the hard ground with a thud, the Sith took their first steps forward.

Not even halfway down the slab, Asher, Fay, and Graves could see motion amidst the impromptu landing site. Black-clad soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the outpost, their numbers bolstered by artificial beings. Droids of various shapes and sizes made up the majority of the defensive force, ranging from humanoid frames to walking tanks.

Stepping off the _Fury_'s ramp and onto the Balmorran dirt, the trio were greeted with the sight of a duracrete wall separating them from their destination. The outpost was fortified, protected on all sides by barriers both artificial and natural. While the rear of the base pressed up against a mountain ridge, the remaining sides were protected by a solid ring of solid, dark gray material, the only gap being the outpost's main entrance. Despite standing only a few meters high, no structures peeked out from behind the curved wall of duracrete.

Absent were any marks of excess or grandeur. A place of pure utility.

Before they could move further, the Sith spotted a single soldier on approach. Armorweave bodysuit beset by protective plating, the rifleman was outfitted for the front-lines, same as the others stationed in and around the outpost. Armed. Protected. Faceless. One of the countless individuals that made up the bulk of the Imperial Army operating throughout the galaxy.

The trio watched the figure approach with an even pace, utterly calm and focused. When he finally reached the Sith, he stopped and offered a dip of his head, methodical in his every action.

"My lords," he began, his voice possessing just the right mix of respect and brevity. "You are the Sith from Logistics, correct? The Commander is eager to meet with you."

"We've no intention of keeping him waiting," said Fay. "Lead the way."

Without a word, the soldier turned and guided the Sith toward the base's entrance. Moving across the dried dirt, the small group passed more guards patrolling the outer wall, but no one offered even an errant glance toward the peculiar Executors. Utterly dedicated to their tasks, those stationed at the outpost embodied everything the Imperial Army held dear.

Passing through the gap in the duracrete wall, the Sith finally received their first glimpse of the base proper. The center of the outpost was little more than a dirt courtyard, an open area populated with stored munitions and parked vehicles. Military-grade speeder bikes and armored transports upon belted treads, all possessing usual Imperial aesthetic of sharp edges and gray finishes. On either side of the courtyard, temporary structures in the form of tents and collapsible frames, nothing that couldn't be deconstructed and moved before the next rotation. The only thing in the entire base that seemed to possess any sense of permanence was the structure built into the mountain ridge opposite the outpost's entrance.

Asher, Fay, and Graves continued through the base, following their escort. All was calm, if not quiet. Men and women not fully prepped for combat congregated in the various tents, passing the time through whatever means afforded to them. Whilst some gathered to play cards, others partook in the various holovids and readings stored on their datapads. Whilst some polished their armor, others disassembled and reassembled their weapons and equipment.

But as the stationed Imperials went about their business, something else caught the trio's attention. The sight of their fellows. Amongst the soldiers, yet decidedly separate, Sith armed and ready for battle rested in tents of their own. And unlike the rest of the outpost's inhabitants, they could not help but cast a number of sideward glances toward the Executors from beneath their black cloaks. Glances that slowly turned to glares.

The trio remained silent as they made their way toward the building at the rear of the outpost, a single-story structure looked like it could have been plucked straight out of Kaas City. Its design was comprised of the usual shapes and colors, albeit with a overlaying coat of dust. It also possessed the first bit of signage throughout the entire base, its heavy doors flanked by flags flying the familiar symbol of the Empire.

The soldier came to a stop in front of the building's reinforced doors, turning to face the Sith one last time. "The Commander wishes to meet privately. You'll find him in the main hub. Farewell, my lords."

With that, the escort dipped his head and departed, soon disappearing amongst his comrades roaming the grounds.

"A private meeting, eh?" Asher muttered.

"And we never did get those additional mission details aboard the ship," Graves added.

"It seems Rederick is trying to limit the information that gets out," Fay stated. "Doesn't want to risk anyone overhearing anything. The question is whether that's just a personality trait or because of this specific mission."

"Well, we already saw the Sith we're supposed to 'keep in line'," said Asher. "They don't seem to appreciate our presence here. Then again, that could have just been your standard Sith angst."

"There ought to be plenty of Sith on world, no telling if these are our warmongers or not," Fay admitted.

"Rederick must has something he only wants us to know," said Graves. "Better hear him out."

The trio advanced, parting the heavy doors and stepping into the building. Inside, the Sith found themselves in a chamber not dissimilar from their headquarters back at the Citadel. The circular room was centered around a large holoprojector, with various terminals and data stations lining the rounded wall. But whereas the Executor headquarters was a constant bustle of activity, the same could not be said of the outpost's command center.

All was quiet. All was dark. Not a single computer or viewscreen offered a single flicker or chirp. The entire chamber was unmanned, except for a single figure staring at the powered down holoprojector, back facing the Sith, hands neatly folded behind him.

"Shut the doors, if you would," the man spoke up. Present was the posh Imperial accent and smooth tones, and yet, there was an underlying grit to his words. His voice spoke of experience. His form practically shouted.

As the Sith closed the doors behind them, the Commander turned, his figure plainly visible even in the dim lighting. A strong build was encased in an officer's uniform. His jacket wore a number of colored stripes and blocks upon its left breast, designating more than simple rank. But even such decorations could not distract from the man's visage.

A man of many parts, the majority of his face was that of a pristine man still managing to hold onto his youth. The area surrounding his right eye, however, was a thing of scarred flesh infused with cybernetics. The bone of his brow and cheek had been replaced with metal, and a mechanical orb took refuge in place of an eye. An orb with a shining red ring as its iris. But despite the apparent calamity wrought upon his face, the Commander carried an ordered presence about him. Blond hair worn clean and parted. Uniform straightened without a single fiber out of line.

The three Sith moved forward, as did the Imperial, until they converged upon the floor of the command center. Standing before the Executors, Rederick passed his mixed gaze between each of the motley figures before him, his lips eventually adopting the slightest of upward curls.

"A pleasure to meet you all," Rederick said, a touch of warmth to his voice. "You've come with high praise. And from a Dark Councilor no less. I have been led to believe that you three can be trusted… and that your loyalties are first and foremost to that of the Empire."

"Well, I don't know if I'd say-" Asher began, before finding an elbow driven into his side.

"That is correct, Commander," Fay interrupted. "If the Emperor desires peace, we'll keep the peace."

"Splendid," said Rederick. The officer seemed to possess a restrained, albeit genuine, enthusiasm. "Follow me, if you would."

The Commander turned around and began making his way toward the rear of the chamber. Looking down, the Sith saw that as Rederick clasped his hands behind his back, metallic digits emerged from the officer's cuffs. Both hands were prosthetic, composed of the same dark and sturdy materials as Graves' own.

At the opposite end of the chamber, a door almost indistinguishable from the surrounding wall lifted into its recess, granting the group access deeper into the facility. Rederick led the way, talking with his half organic, half mechanical gaze set on the constricting corridor ahead.

"What details were you given in regards to your mission?" he asked.

"Very little," Fay replied, head slightly tilted to avoid brushing her head against the ceiling. "We know some Sith might be intentionally provoking the rebels here to create additional tension. Anything more we're told would come from you."

"I see. Very good," said Rederick. "Indeed, we believe there are forces on Balmorra trying to reignite the war, if not create some facsimile of it. However, intelligence suggests that there is something more than the squabbles of petty Sith at work here."

"I wouldn't underestimate the squabbles of Sith," Asher replied.

"What I mean is, that Sith are not the only ones on this planet to seek conflict." The Commander rounded a corner, leading the Sith down a hallway lined with doors spaced just far enough apart to allot a single room behind each one.

"You mean besides the rebels, right?" Fay asked. "Some of your fellow Imperials longing for the war?"

"No. These soldiers understand their purpose here. Their loyalty is not in question," Rederick declared. There was a beat as the officer walked in silence. "You are aware of the Republic's withdrawal, correct?"

"We got full control of the planet with the Treaty of Coruscant," Fay stated. "The Republic forces planetside were given a strict timetable to vacate, so I had assumed they were all gone by now."

"Indeed. Officially, the Republic has made a full retreat, going so far as to abandon any resources they couldn't scuttle," Rederick explained.

"You think some soldiers stayed behind?" Graves asked.

"Not soldiers," Rederick replied. "Jedi."

"There are Jedi on Balmorra?" asked Fay.

Rederick came to a stop in front of a door, identical to the many others lining the corridor. "Indeed. Your original task of keeping the Sith in line has just been made more difficult. Ever since the reports surfaced, it has been harder and harder maintain order as warriors seek to sate their blood-lust. Therefore, our mission is now to find and remove these Jedi, quickly and efficiently, before matters spiral out of control."

"And how do we go about doing that?" Graves asked.

"Fortunately, we have someone to assist us," said Rederick, before he punched a code into the door's control panel. Not a moment later, the slab of metal lifted into its recess. Looking into the small chamber, the Sith saw something more akin to a holding cell, barely furnished and without adornment. Inside, a single figure sat at a table, slowly sipping a beverage.

A Human in her later years, the serene woman paid almost no mind to the motley group standing the doorway. Instead, she continued to enjoy her drink, comfortable in the numerous layers of earthen-tone robes.

Peering inside, Asher scratched the back of his head. "Well, I'd say we located the Jedi."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

The older woman finally looked up from her mug, passing her gaze between each of the Sith. The Executors reciprocated, eyes glued to the Jedi sitting deep within the Imperial base. In all manners, she was plain, especially compared to the figures before her. Her robes were absent any flare or flourish, her long hair was restrained in a neat bun, and her face lacked any semblance of scarring or fatigue that typically graced the participants of the Great War. Instead, she possessed little more than the occasional wrinkle and a touch of gray.

All was silent as the two sides did little more than stare, until Rederick stepped into the simple chamber.

"This… is Master Kesara, Jedi Consular and diplomat," the Commander revealed as he circled the table, soon standing by the seated woman's side.

The Sith hesitantly passed the threshold of the room, spreading out as much as the cramped quarters would allow. Fay stood front and center, while her fellows took their respective places against opposite walls.

"What's she doing here?" asked Asher.

"Like I said, she's here to help us locate the Jedi hiding on Balmorra," Rederick replied.

"I was more so referring to the room. You know, the one that looks like a holding cell?"

A quaint chuckle from the older woman, her lips curling into a soft smile as she lowered her drink. "I'm not a prisoner, if that's what you're implying. Well, I suppose that would depend on your definition of the word 'prisoner'."

The Jedi's words were calm, but lacked the coldness possessed by some of the stoics of her Order. She instead possessed a softness in her voice. A kindness.

"This room was merely a safety precaution," Rederick explained. "She's here at the behest of the Imperial Diplomatic Service. The conditions of the Republic's withdrawal dictate that the Jedi are responsible for recalling their members, and that a representative be present until said members are offworld."

"Complicating matters is the fact that we no longer consider those still on Balmorra members of the Order," said Kesara. "We've denounced these rogues, but without specific identities we cannot officially excommunicate them. Therefore, I'm forced to stay here until they are all captured… or killed."

"Rough deal," Asher nonchalantly offered.

"It's not so bad," Kesara replied, maintaining her pleasant demeanor. "I've time to meditate… and they keep me supplied with tea." The woman brought the cup to her lips before taking a quick sip. "Granted, if I'm unable to locate these Jedi, I'll likely receive the punishment in their stead. I guess no matter what, the Empire gets to put at least one Jedi to death."

"Well, at least you've sufficient motivation to track down your fellows," said Asher alongside a flippant waft of his hand. "Sorry, _former_ fellows."

"I would consider it my duty to locate these individuals regardless of the blade your government holds to my neck," Kesara admitted, tone growing slightly sharper. "The Order does not tolerate those committing misdeeds in its name."

"Well, I suppose that would depend on your definition of the word 'misdeeds'," Asher plainly stated.

"Regardless, we're all after the same thing here," Fay spoke up. "None of us want to see a war break out on Balmorra."

"It is pleasing to know that not all Sith are adverse to peace," said Kesara. The Jedi paused as she passed her gaze between the Executors. "I'm afraid I never received your names."

"Fay."

"Graves."

"Asher."

"I see. Well, here's to cooperation," said Kesara, raising her cup high. There it stayed for but a moment, before finding itself drawn back to the woman's mouth.

As the Jedi continued to partake in her drink, Graves slightly cocked his head. "Rederick didn't tell you who we were?"

Finishing her sip, Kesara shot a sidewards glance toward the Imperial looming over her shoulder, before returning toward the scarred Sith. "I was given the basics, but… the Commander has been rather reluctant in passing along information."

Asher smirked. "I guess we've something in common, then."

"The withholding of details was a necessary measure, I assure you," Rederick declared. "I can explain in greater detail back in the command center. Follow me, if you would." The Commander stepped around the table, slipping between the Sith and exiting into the corridor beyond. He glanced back into the chamber, only to see the Jedi remain calmly seated. "That includes you, Master Kesara."

"Isn't it risky letting me out?"

"Don't worry, we'll protect you," Fay offered.

"Yeah, you wouldn't be the first Jedi we've kept safe," Asher added.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Kesara.

The burned Sith offered a brief sigh. "Long story."

"We encountered three Jedi on our last mission," Graves spoke up. "Two wanted to fight us, one didn't. When the pair turned on their fellow, we stepped in, protected her."

"Okay, not so long after all," Asher muttered. "I mean, there is more to it, but… eh."

The Jedi arched her brow as her eyes bounced between the trio of Sith as they left without another word. Calmly, Kesara rose from her seat and stepped toward the room's exit, tea in hand. "What a curious bunch."

Together, the motley quintet traversed the cramped halls until they graced the dim hub of the command center. Rederick raised one of his metallic hands, and the others took pause. As the Force-users waited patiently on the outer ring of the circular room, the Commander went to work visiting the various terminals that graced the lower floor.

"Whether through ignorance or malice, there has been evidence of classified information falling into the hands of rebels across Balmorra," Rederick said as he continued to move about the command center, not stopping for even a moment. "As a precaution, the usage of data and communications equipment has been kept to a minimum and heavily monitored. This applies across all currently operating outposts. We, however, find ourselves under unique circumstances prompting extra precaution. From this point forth, certain information stays strictly between those in this room."

The hums and static of machines coming to life filled the chamber. Rederick moved with a tempered haste guided by mechanical efficiency, before stopping in front of the central holoprojector. The Commander raised his hand once more, but this time beckoned the others to approach. As they did, the central console glowed brighter and brighter, until a three-dimensional map manifested above it. The image reproduced several hundred square kilometers of terrain, detailing with utmost accuracy the local geography and points of interest.

Rederick turned, backlit by the blue hologram, to face the others. Although the augmented man possessed a sturdy frame, he was only of average height. But as he folded his hands behind his back and straightened his posture, the cyborg managed to stand tall before the Force-users in both body and spirit.

"This shall be an operation of finesse, rather than brute strength," Rederick declared. "We are currently at a supreme disadvantage in the way of available intelligence, thus we must utilize our own. Executors… though your organization has promised me your cooperation with the rogue Jedi, you are officially here to protect and oversee the transition of several manufactories. The process, which involves the transfer of previous stock and the implementation of new Imperial schematics, makes them a prime target for a rebel attack. We, however, are not interested in the rebels. They are the concern of the local governor and our forces in Sobrik. Nonetheless, these installation are your official reason for being on Balmorra."

The Commander pivoted, just enough to tap a button on the holoprojector behind him. Seven red blips appeared on the map above as an irregular string along a mountain ridge, several kilometers apart.

"These are the facilities you are tasked with protecting," Rederick continued. "You will visit each one, oversee the transition process, and move on to the next."

"How long does the process take?" Graves asked.

"Each facility will require a full day," Rederick replied.

"Which means we've seven days before we can even begin focusing on the rogue Jedi," Asher muttered as he began scratching his chin. "I suppose that's not that long, all things considered."

"Balmorran rotations are around forty seven hours long," Fay plainly stated.

"Oh..." the burned Sith muttered.

"There is, however, a way to carry out both missions at the same time," Rederick declared. Once more, the Commander pressed a button on the holoprojector and the seven blips disappeared, a new batch taking their place. This time, more than a dozen red markers dotted the map. "These are the locations of all attacks in the area since the Republic's withdrawal."

A few of the blips disappeared.

"These are the locations we suspect might have had Jedi involvement."

A few more vanished.

"These are the locations we've confirmed the presence of lightsaber marks."

Finally, only a single red dot remained.

"And then there's this…" Rederick began, before directing everyone's attention toward the back wall. There, a large viewscreen began playing a video.

From the perspective of a ceiling-mounted camera, a scene unfolded within one of Balmorra's many manufactories. The floor and walls were of a more rustic design than what was expected of Imperial structures, dull grays and browns composing the metallic surfaces. In the center of the camera's view, three beings. Two mechanical. One organic.

Between two battledroids, a black-clad figure stood, eyes forward. The armored and robed man remained utterly motionless, until suddenly he reached for his belt. With a flick of his wrist, he ignited his lightsaber, baring its crimson beam as the metallic beings flanking him took aim in the same direction. The scene shook, and the droids were flung back and out of frame by some invisible force. The Sith, meanwhile, braced himself, only sliding back a few centimeters as the powerful kinetic wave washed over him.

But before he could properly recover, a white blur appeared from off camera, rushing up to the staggered defender. In one smooth action, a blue lightsaber emerged and batted away the Sith's blade. Continuing the motion, the newcomer spun on their heels, swinging their weapon in a complete circle. The Sith froze, standing completely still for a few second before finally falling to his knees. Only then did the defender's head drop from his shoulders.

Motionless, the blur now appeared as a white-robed humanoid, visage hidden by a raised hood. The still-standing figure turned ever so slightly toward the ceiling mounted camera, face still obscured, before extending their free hand. Fingers stretched out, the attacker then offered the swift clench of their fist and the video went black.

"Well..." Asher began, breaking the silence. "Thank goodness their security camera recorded in color."

The chamber returned to a state of quiet, except for the soft sounds of Kesara taking a sip of tea.

"That was our first and only visual confirmation of a Jedi," Rederick explained, redirecting everyone's attention back to the map. The previously lone remaining blip flashed as the others returned. "But by examining that attack and others like it, we've found a way to separate them from unrelated rebel strikes, and determine a common trait amongst them. Their locations are scattered and follow no geographical pattern, meaning it is not matter of distance. Their targets have been manufactories that develop different products, meaning it is not a matter of value."

"Then what are they targeting?" asked Fay. "Or is the common trait that there isn't an actual target?"

"There is indeed a target. Sith," Rederick declared. "Each of these locations possessed a Sith defender, and at each one they were slain. Rarely were there any other casualties or infrastructural damage. The attacks were efficient. The Jedi knew what they were after and for the most part were able to carry out their task without a trace." The Commander's head dipped, before repeating with a whisper, "for the most part."

"I'd call showing up on camera a pretty big trace," Asher offered.

"Maybe they got sloppy," Graves suggested.

"Or maybe they're running out of Sith, and wanted to issue a challenge," said Fay.

"A challenge I'm sure many would willingly accept," Rederick stated, lifting his gaze. "Which is why we've been keeping as tight a control on information as possible. We cannot allow the order we've instilled on this world to give way to chaos. Sith running around, tearing apart facilities in search of Jedi, it benefits no one. Not Production and Logistic. Not Diplomacy. Not even the Ministry of War. But now that we know what these rogues are targeting Sith…"

"We can give them Sith," Fay suggested.

"Precisely," Rederick quickly replied. "You've seen the others outside. In this outpost, we have gathered all the Sith defenders previously stationed outside Sobrik. With such a gathering, the Jedi would never attack here. But if a few Sith were to leave this outpost, operating on a strict schedule at predesignated locations…"

"The Jedi would have nowhere else to attack," Fay finished the Commander's sentence.

Asher scoffed."So, we're supposed to be bait."

"The attacks will continue, that is an inevitability," Rederick declared. "If the Sith are scattered amongst a dozen locations, there's no way we can predict where the next one will occur. But if we can limit the possibilities, and provide incentive, we can guide the Jedi right to us."

"Right," Asher muttered. "And what's our Jedi friend here supposed to be doing while all this is going down."

"We still do not know how many Jedi we are dealing with," Rederick admitted. "If we can identify any of these rogues, Master Kesara can likely supply us with additional information. Associates. Loyalties. Agendas."

"So she'll just sit around sipping tea for the next few days while we stick our necks out, got it," Asher grumbled.

"If you're upset, you could ask for some tea as well. I'm sure there's plenty to go around," Kesara calmly stated, raising the mug to her lips once more. The burned Sith shot an arch of his brow toward the Jedi, who offered the slightest sharpening of her eyes in return. "I will also be meditating. There remains the chance that the Force will guide me toward these rogues."

"Well, good luck with that," Asher loudly whispered.

"So what do we do now?" asked Graves.

"For now, we rest and prepare," Rederick replied. "You will move to your first target tomorrow. Remember, to everyone else, your sole purpose here is to provide security for these facilities. Do nothing to rile up the other Sith, if you would. I will remain here to monitor operations and keep this outpost in order."

"Understood, Commander," Fay said with a dip of her head. "We'll be on the ship, so if you need anything, you know where to find us. Will Kesara still be safe here?"

"Don't worry. I managed to make it by before your arrival," the Jedi offered with a smile. "I'll be fine."

The tall woman nodded and departed toward the building's front entrance.

Graves followed, but stopped a moment in front of Kesara. "Nice meeting you."

Asher was the last to budge from his spot, and similarly paused before the Jedi. "Have fun meditating or whatever."

"I will, thank you," Kesara kindly replied, taking one last sip of tea.

The burned Sith sighed and made his way toward the exit to join his fellows.

Stepping back into the daylight, the three Executors stood together, passing their gazes between one another and their surroundings. No one was nearby.

"So, initial thoughts?" Asher spoke up.

"The plan seems sound," Fay plainly stated. "Plus there's the matter of who it came from."

"What, you know the guy?" asked Asher.

"Not directly," Fay admitted. "I didn't recognize the name, but the face… you remember the recruitment posters in Kaas City? Back during the war?"

"Uh… there were quite a few," Asher muttered.

"'The Empire endures', 'Duty never dies', those ones?"

Asher offered the dismissive waft of his hand. "Didn't spend much time on Kaas while the war was going on. So, what, we're working with a literal poster boy?"

"Tell me, what's Rederick's rank?" Fay asked.

"Commander, right?" Asher answered.

"Commander's a title, not a proper rank," Fay replied. "For as rigid a hierarchy as the Imperial Army, do you know what it takes to get an honorary title, let alone have everyone refer to you by it? He's up there with people like Odile Vaiken, Rycus Kilran, Derro Kaven-"

"Who?" Asher interrupted.

The tall woman released a low sigh. "Did you ever pay any attention to the soldiers you were stationed with?"

"I guess he only knows of old war heroes named 'Murel'," Graves stoically offered. "Though I suppose he did pay attention to their supplies when he stole that grenade."

"No one's going to miss one freaking grenade!" Asher barked.

* * *

Three black-clad figures sat huddled under the shade of their makeshift tent. One, a monster of a man encased in a suit of plated armorweave. Red-skinned, bald of head, the middle-aged warrior was a Sith Pureblood who wore the marks of conflict upon his visage. A deep gash ran along his left cheek, a wound that had clipped the fleshy tendril that previously hung in its path. He was sturdy, broad, yet equally sharp.

Sitting across from him, almost in reverence, were two Humans in hooded robes. A man and a woman, both slim, both young, both inferior in both physical and social stature.

The Pureblood panned his sharpened gaze to peer at the courtyard beyond his tent. Catching his eye were the trio of Sith exiting the command center. He watched them, studied them, until finally, his eyes shot open.

"What is it, master?" asked the hooded woman.

"It can't be… it's him..." the Pureblood muttered.

"Who, master?" asked the hooded man.

The Pureblood's lips curled into a smirk, revealing the sharp teeth that waited beneath.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Asher, Fay, and Graves began their casual walk back to the _Fury_, rounding the stockpile in the center of the courtyard. But as the three Executors passed by a group of patrolling soldiers, there was movement that strayed from the methodical norm. Fay held out a hand, bringing herself and her fellows to a stop.

"Got Sith on approach," she whispered. Asher and Graves looked past the tall woman to see three figures making their way over from the tents. An armored juggernaut flanked by his robed underlings. "Recognize them?"

Graves shook his head. "No. Asher?"

"Nope," said the burned man, before he offered an exaggerated shrug. "Then again, at some point Sith just start to blend together. It's all spikes and masks, robes and leather to me."

"I don't know them either," Fay admitted. "Remember, don't instigate, don't reveal why we're here."

"It's almost like you don't trust us," Asher said with a smirk.

"Not 'us'. Just you," Fay admitted.

Asher offered with a playful scoff. Reaching into the folds of his robes, the burned Sith returned with a cigarra held between his fingers. But before he could bring it to his lips, the paper tube was snatched away by some invisible force. Its owner watched as the cigarra churned and crumbled in the air before falling to the ground in a clump of fine powder. He looked to Fay, who only offered her sharpened gaze in return.

"Those things cost credits, you know," Asher muttered.

"Don't. Instigate."

Asher folded his arms, releasing a low sigh. "Fine."

Under the light of the Balmorran sun, amidst the courtyard of the Imperial outpost, the two trios met. The Pureblood was a warrior in every right, armor encasing his powerful frame, lightsaber clipped to his waist. His followers were less so, youthful faces obscured under raised hoods. But despite their softness relative to the figures surrounding them, they carried a presence of utter confidence as they stood in their master's shadow.

"Can we help you?" asked Fay, calm but firm in her delivery.

"Help? No, no help," said the Pureblood with a toothy grin, a coarseness dominating his every syllable. "I simply thought I saw a familiar face… and I had to make sure I wasn't mistaken."

Fay cocked her head to the side. "And whose face might that be?"

The Pureblood cast his crimson gaze toward scarred Sith. "Why, that of Lord Drath's apprentice."

"I don't remember having ever met," Graves plainly stated.

The Pureblood released a rough chortle. "But of course. I never had the pleasure of meeting you in person, but Drath spoke very highly of you. We were… colleagues of sorts, your master and I. I feel I'd recognize your face anywhere."

"You sure?" Asher offered with an arch of his brow. "Because I'm pretty sure he doesn't keep the same face for more than a week. Graves is kinda prone to accruing damage."

"Hey!" snapped the hooded woman. The burned Sith turned to see one of the Pureblood's underlings glaring at him. The Human's face bordered on a snarl, but it wasn't her expression that drew attention. Instead, it was the red tattoo etched onto the middle of her forehead. The symbol was wild, yet suitably contained, a series of sharp lines coalescing into a Sith rune. "You should speak with more respect when addressing a superior!"

A quick chuckle slipped out of burned man. "I'll keep that in mind for when I actually meet one."

"Asher..." Fay muttered, bordering on scolding.

The Pureblood placed a heavy hand upon his subordinate's shoulder, immediately causing her to back down. "There's little need for propriety when I've yet to introduce myself. I am Lord Demik. And I would love a chance to converse, Graves, if you had the time."

"It'll have to wait," the scarred man plainly stated. "We're here on business."

"And what business might that be?" asked Demik.

"Executors of Logistics, ever heard of 'em?" Asher replied.

The other trio answered in the form of silence.

"We're here to prevent the rebels from wrecking too many of the Empire's new factories," said Fay. "Nothing special."

"Indeed, sounds rather mundane, far from a worthy task for Sith," Demik replied. There was a heavy silence as the Pureblood passed his gaze between the three Executors, finally settling on Graves. "But it is a new age, I suppose. Still, I'd welcome the chance to talk, catch up on a few things."

"Not much to catch up on," said Graves. "Drath died on Coruscant."

Demik offered a quick nod. "Of that, I am well aware. But there are other things I'd like to discuss. Another time, perhaps."

"Another time," Graves repeated.

A crooked smile stretched across the Pureblood's face. "Well, you know where to find me. And judging by the interceptor I saw fly in… I know where to find you."

With that, the warrior turned away, the hooded man following shortly after. The hooded woman stood her ground for the moment, sharpening her gaze toward the burned Sith.

"Nice tattoo," said Asher, oozing with sarcasm.

The woman furrowed her brow, distorting the rune on her forehead. "It stands for 'killer'."

"It should stand for 'idiot'," he replied. "No one ever looks good with a dumb face tattoo."

The woman gritted her teeth before storming off in a huff, stomping across the courtyard to catch up with her master. The Executors remained stilled and silent, watching the other trio until they finally disappeared into their tent.

Breaking the silence was Fay releasing a sigh as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I said, 'don't instigate', did I not?"

Asher tightly crossed his arms. "What? It had to be said."

"No, it really didn't," Fay stated, still rubbing her face.

"Whatever," said Asher. "It's not like the whole exchange wasn't already weird."

"What was weird about it?" Graves asked with his usual emotionless candor.

The burned Sith offered his compatriot the firm arch of his brow. "Really? Nothing seemed off? The pleasantries? Some random Sith knowing you and your master? Him wanting to 'talk'."

"What's wrong with just wanting to talk?" asked Graves.

"A Sith never _just_ wants to talk," Asher replied.

"You seem to do a good job contradicting that statement," said Fay.

Asher released a quick scoff. "The guy's up to something, I know it."

"We can't afford to be distracted," Fay stated. "Honestly, unless he's involved with our _other problem_, it's not worth getting into. Whatever business he has with Graves can wait."

"Do you think I should speak with him?" asked Graves. "In case he _is_ involved."

"You don't exactly have a perfect track record with social cues," Asher replied. "Involved or not, we can't risk you inadvertently revealing anything to him. Never make the first move unless you know more than the other guy... then again, we've pretty much broken that adage ever since joining the Executors."

Fay looked to her scarred compatriot. "Is there a chance he'll be trouble?"

"I don't know," Graves admitted. "Never met the man before today. Drath didn't have many allies. Or enemies, for that matter. If he did, he didn't tell me."

"Then we steer clear for now," Fay declared.

"Great, now to spend the rest of the day on the ship," said Asher, curiously absent his usual snark.

Without another word, the Executors began their walk toward the outpost's entrance, not intent on stopping until once more aboard the _Fury_. As the trio disappeared beyond the perimeter wall, the two hooded Sith poked their heads out from their tent.

"So, is that truly him?" asked the hooded man, bouncing his gaze between the courtyard and the Sith Lord seated beside him.

Demik leaned forward on the simple folding chair that graced his temporary home, clasping his armored fingers together. "Oh, I've no doubt in my mind."

"And you think he'd be a willing participant?" asked the hooded woman.

The Sith Lord flashed a toothy grin. "Drath may have been a fool, but his apprentice allowed him to make a great many strides in our Order. Graves is more than a warrior... he's a butcher. He'll leap at the chance to shed some Jedi blood. And a chance we shall give."

* * *

Three figures stood amidst the cold wastes of Ziost, lit by the sunlight that struggled to pass through the dense cloud layer. The air was calm, granting a respite from the usually harsh winter winds. Missing was the constant falling of snow, as well as the thick layer that usually surrounded their feet. Instead, the three figures gathered on a hard and rigid stretch of gray stone. A natural arena.

Nami stood before her instructors, the wounds all but disappeared from her face, only the slightest of faded indentations speaking of injuries sustained in days prior. Across from her, Nesk and Vurt offered only cold stares.

"Our time grows short," the Nikto spoke up, firm and direct. "Soon, you will be called to the Academy. Once you step into those halls, we can no longer help you. Do you understand?"

Nami offered a firm nod. Gone was the shivering and numbness that usually graced the girl's body. She stood resolute before the Sith, fingers clenched.

"Very well," Vurt continued. "Then we shall impart upon you one final lesson. One that will be the key to your survival."

The Nikto began to move off to the sidelines, leaving the girl before the towering Trandoshan. Nami followed Vurt with her eyes, but her attention was quickly drawn back as Nesk reached behind his back. No longer wearing the dueling blades upon his person, the taller instructor produced two metallic hilts. Two lightsabers.

Without a word, he tossed one toward the student. Just before the weapon could strike the hard ground, Nami caught it with her mind. Carefully, she reached out with the Force, slowly guiding the gifted lightsaber to her hand. The girl studied the device, getting a feel for its weight, contemplating its length. Standard in all aspects, the silver hilt appeared to be the closest thing to a mass-produced lightsaber as one could find in the Empire.

Nami remained silent, instead calmly passing her gaze between the two instructors.

"There is but one certainty in this universe," Vurt stated. "There is no such thing as perfection. You may train, you may strive, but that will always be beyond your reach. The same holds true for your opponent. Every opponent."

Nesk flicked his wrist, producing a red beam from his lightsaber, one that seemed almost too short for his immense frame. As the sharp hum of the extended blade finally reached the girl, only now did she shudder. Nami hastily bounced her gaze between the Trandoshan's saber and her own, searching for the activator on her hilt. The ex-Jedi had questions, concerns, but by this point she realized how unimportant they were. The Sith would speak. The Sith would act. Nothing she did or said would affect that. Instead, she poised herself as the crimson blade extended from her gifted lightsaber.

"There is hunter. There is prey. Always," Nesk declared, utilizing his usual snarly form of Basic. "Only it can determine what it is. It needs strength. But it also needs knowledge. It must act. But it must also react."

"Within every opponent, every obstacle, there are strengths and weaknesses," Vurt continued. "Traits to uncover. Patterns to observe. Imperfections to analyze. If you wish to survive, you must know more about your foe than they know about themselves."

"But that's impossible," Nami muttered. The girl bit her lip, knowing her words were meaningless before the instructors.

"It would be, if we were conscious of every action we take," Vurt replied. "But we are not. We are guided by our thoughts, by instinct, by the Force. The key to survival is, and will always be, control. Control your self. Control your surroundings. Control your opponent. Uncover the faults whilst masking your own."

"It's not about matching strength with strength," Nami suggested. "It's about overcoming. It's about understanding."

"Correct," said Vurt. "You have spent days in our company. You have witnessed us fight. Therefore, you've no reason to lose to us."

"What? I get that it's important to recognize patterns and weaknesses... but that doesn't mean I can just beat you in a duel. This is the first time I've seen one of you actually use a lightsaber."

"Matters not," Nesk stated. "There are things core to being. More than skill. More than weapon. Things that will always be."

"You can't expect me to have noticed anything over the course of a couple days," said Nami, shoulders drooping, her blade lowering along with them. "And if you knew this was coming, shouldn't you have just 'masked your faults'?"

"Indeed," Vurt replied. "We should have. We did. As will all you face. But it falls to you to recognize this. To uncover. Not in a matter of days, but moments. That which delivers your death will not announce itself. You do not have time to prepare. You do not have time to try. You simply must do."

"Don't try... act," Nami whispered to herself. "Don't try... act. Don't try..."

Without a word, Nesk charged, rushing toward the girl with his weapon raised high. Bridging the gap, the Trandoshan brought his saber down with a mighty, cascading swing. Nami sidestepped the blow, gliding across the ground as her opponent's blade scorched the cold stone she stood upon moments prior. The instructor did not relent, winding back the weightless blade for another swing. And once more, the girl dodged, taking a quick leap back.

But as she did, she heard the presence of a third hum. In the corner of her eye, Nami watched as a crimson beam of plasma extended from the hilt in Vurt's hand. The Nikto readied his weapon as Nesk slowly approached from the opposite side.

"I can't... this is impossible!" Nami shouted. "I can't win against the both of you!"

"This is not about winning," Vurt stated as he took a step toward the girl. "This is about survival. That is all that matters."

Nami could barely move as she raised her saber, struggling to adopt a defensive stance. Sith to her left and right. Two blades. Two opponents. One objective. Survival.

But as the instructors neared, the girl's legs were frozen, and not by the nature of her environment. An oppressive force washed over the ex-Jedi. An aura projected not by her foes, but her own notions of inadequacy, threatening to crush her under its weight. But as she faced the encroaching danger, she felt something trying to rise through the burden. Something trying to claw its way to the surface. Something not of the self, yet utterly inseparable.

"No..." Nami whispered to herself. To not herself. The girl squeezed her eyes shut with all her might. "I won't let you. I am in control. You can do this, Nami..."

Finally, she opened her eyes.

"You can do this."

Nesk closed the gap between himself and the girl, offering a wide swing of his blade. Nami ducked out of the way, only to find Vurt's saber thrusting toward her core. The girl moved her blade just in time to misdirect the Nikto's attack, deflecting and backing away in a single move. The two Sith now in front of her, Nami wrapped both hands around her hilt, drawing and releasing a deep breath.

Raising her blade, the girl prepared for the next onslaught.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Ziost. A new day.

Within the cramped living room of her instructors' home, Nami shared the couch with Vurt as a continuous clattering echoed from the connected kitchenette. The girl was hunched forward, resting her arms upon her legs as she drew labored breaths. Eyes heavy, her entire body ached, but nothing stung quite like the cut that stretched across her face. Bright red, the razor-thin gash had only recently crusted over, running from the center of her brow and down her left cheek. Vurt, meanwhile, maintained an unwavering upright posture, absent of wounds, casting his beady eyes forward in a picture of composure and patience.

The noises from the kitchen reached a crescendo before falling completely silent. Only then did the Trandoshan emerge, holding two dishes in his hands. He set the first plate of charred meat before his fellow Sith without a fuss, but the second placed in front of the girl came with an unsteady jitter. Nami stared at Nesk's hands as he withdrew them, the left of which featured a thick wrapping of bandages, and only two of its usual three digits.

"I'm sorry about... you know..." the girl managed to finally get out, still ducking her head.

"Is no problem," Nesk casually offered, though still delivered with the usual half-snarl. Without another word, the Trandoshan disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving the girl to stare at the blackened patty of ground meat that lay before her.

Finally, the Nikto budged from his perfect posture, taking hold of his fork. "It really isn't," he said, not bothering to look at the girl as he spoke. "Nesk once lost a hand. Regrowing a finger shouldn't take much effort."

Nami's eyes went wide, before the motion agitated the cut running across her face. With a wince and a grit of her teeth, the girl drew and released a deep breath as she finally took hold of her fork. "Can you really grow an entire hand back?"

"He can," said Vurt as he cut into his patty. "Nesk's people can naturally regenerate limbs. And with the Force, a process that would normally take months or years can instead be done in a few short days. Other species aren't quite as lucky."

The scaled Sith returned with his own plate of foodstuffs. Taking his seat in the nearby armchair, the Trandoshan wasted no time digging into his meal. Nami watched as Vurt did the same, albeit with smaller, more sensible bites.

The girl stared at her food, fork shaking as her hand slightly trembled. Her grip had been steadfast not hours ago, but now it was as weak as the rest of her extremities. She had survived. But only just. And yet now she sat, calmly, amongst her attackers, about to eat a reasonably prepared meal.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to sitting… next to people who just tried to kill me," Nami muttered, mouth barely moving as the words pushed past her lips.

"It will," Nesk said between bites.

"It's the nature of the Sith," Vurt added. "You will share rooms with those who will inevitably try to kill you. You will share rooms with those you will inevitably try to kill."

The girl fell silent as she cut into her food. Tender, the beef patty fell apart under the weight of her fork. Light seasoning. A bed of some unknown sauce. She took her first bite, each motion of her jaw bringing a sharp sting of pain. Her muscles ached. Her scar ached. Her entire being ached.

After a few more bites, Nami paused her eating, opting to simply stare at what remained of her food. "Did I... did I do good, today?"

"It is alive," said Nesk. "All that matters."

Nami's head dipped, but only for a moment. "Does that mean... I'm ready for the Academy?"

"No one is truly 'ready' for the Academy," Vurt replied. "But you've been given the necessary basics. The rest is up to you."

Nesk looked up from his dish to offer the girl a quick glance. "It knows the Force. It knows how to survive. That is all it needs."

"I wasn't exactly lacking knowledge in those subjects... before I came to Ziost," said Nami.

"It had knowledge. Now it has wisdom," Nesk replied. "One is no more than words. Other must be beaten into it."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it." With that, the girl returned to her food, and the trio continued to eat in silence.

* * *

Balmorra. A new day.

The sun had long since reached its peak as it hovered high above Imperial Outpost XT-25. The soldiers stationed within moved with duty and precision as they continued their drills and patrols. The Sith, meanwhile, continued to offer harsh scowls beneath dark cowls as they peered out from their makeshift tents. Despite the constant bustle and movement, there was little that actually changed within the base's courtyard. Within the command center, however, was another story.

Three figures gathered around the central holoterminal, only the bare minimum of systems receiving power within the communications hub. Standing shoulder to shoulder were the Commander, the Consular, and an Executor. Rederick, Kesara, and Graves.

The trio were soon joined by the electronic image of a Sith projected before them, robed and wrapped, arms firmly crossed.

"Asher here. Seems we've finished slightly ahead of schedule. The old stock has been secured, and the new schematics have been installed." The burned Sith's words were seeped in boredom, the typically sharp voice having been rendered dull. "No signs of Jedi. Or rebels for that matter. You sure they know about us?"

"We plugged all but one leak, so to speak," said Rederick. "We've a channel we know is tapped into by a resistance cell. They knew that a pair of Sith would be present at that facility."

The image of Asher began to scratch its chin. "So, either two Sith is too great a risk, or this particular cell isn't in contact with our Jedi."

"There's also a chance they're biding their time," Rederick replied. "Without proper intel, we cannot say whether or not the Jedi scouted their targets prior to engagement."

"If we _were_ scouted, that might hamper our ability switch out one of us with Graves," said Asher. "If they know there's three of us, that definitely might make us into too great a threat."

"Does that mean we're going to switch to solo outings?" asked the scarred Sith still back at base.

Rederick held up one of his mechanized hands. "Wait. We're still in the early phases of this operation. We cannot change our methods after a single day."

"We've only so many days to keep up this ruse, Commander," Asher quickly replied. "We're going to run out of facilities eventually. Honestly, Graves might be right. Have one of us out in the open with the rest of us playing support. I'm sure Fay can handle some renegade Jedi by herself. Hell, she could probably capture one just like our Consular friend wanted."

"The sentiment is appreciated," Kesara offered alongside a slight bow of her head, to which the burned Sith gave an inaudible scoff.

Rederick shook his head. "We lack a sufficient estimate of our enemy's threat level. I won't risk sending a single agent into the field, not even a Sith."

A sigh from Asher. "Very well. We can discuss our options when we get back to base. Shouldn't take _too_ long…" A pause. "Do you think we can take the _Fury_, next time? I mean, I don't see it making us any greater or less a target if its parked outside the factory."

"Don't worry, Asher. I'm looking after the ship," Graves plainly stated.

"You'd better be," Asher shot back. "I don't want to get back to base and find something wrong with my ship."

The stern voice of an unseen female poured from the holoterminal's speakers. "_Your_ ship?"

Asher's image quickly looked to its side before dipping its head. "Fine. _Our_ ship."

"It's in capable hands," Graves stated, his stoicism hampering any intended comfort.

The burned Sith unfolded his arms. "I'm holding you to that. We'll board our shuttle soon. Be back as soon as we can."

"Do not lower your guard," said Rederick. "There remains the possibility that you could be attacked mid-transit."

"Understood. Asher out." With that, the electronic image faded. With communications ceased, the Commander went to work depowering the surrounding terminals. The lights and sounds of technology quickly fled the chamber, until the room was dark and silent.

"I should probably go check on the ship," Graves stated. "Do you two need anything?"

"Nothing for the moment, Executor," Rederick replied, still focusing the majority of his attention on the surrounding equipment. "We'll send for you if something comes up."

The Consular offered the polite shake of her head, to which Graves gave a quick nod. Whilst Rederick and Kesara remained securely within the command center, the scarred Sith made his way back to the _Fury_.

With a determined gait, eyes unwavering, the armor-clad figure passed through the courtyard, paying no mind to the soldiers and Sith that populated the space. He moved, without a second thought, until he stood before the raised entrance ramp of his group's vessel. In the shadow of the _Fury_, Graves offered the brief wave of his hand, and not a moment later, the slab of metal deployed.

The scarred man boarded the ship, and made it through no more than a single corridor before being greeted by the ever friendly Astromechanical Logistics Droid.

"Welcome back, master," the machine said with a bow.

"Hello, ALD," Graves replied, his emotionless voice a stark contrast to the droid's overbearing warmth. "Any problems with the ship?"

"None whatsoever, master. The _Fury_ remains in as perfect a state as the moment you left."

"I see. Good."

Without another word, the Sith entered the central chamber of the vessel, ALD following his every step. He paused, panned his gaze, and eventually took his seat upon one of the couches lining the interior wall. Hands neatly folded upon his lap, the scarred man did nothing but sit perfectly still as he cast a blank stare toward the opposing wall.

Standing beside the stilled Sith, ALD slightly cocked its head. "Is there anything I can get for you, master?"

"Nothing for the moment, ALD," Graves replied, not budging from his seat. And with that, the room returned to silence. To stillness.

Two beings. One wholly inorganic. The other partially so. Both equally rigid. Graves would say nothing. Do nothing. He was content to sit and stare. And the droid was content to stand by his side. Seconds passed. Then minutes. Each without change. The first disturbance came not from the cyborg, but from the fully-mechanized being.

"Is there anything you'd like me to do, master?" ALD asked. "I have a repository of holovids and music that I could play for you."

"Nothing for the moment, ALD," Graves repeated, same exact cadence as before.

"Studies have shown that an increasing number of Sith enjoy recording their thoughts in journals. I would be more than happy to act as your personal holorecorder, master."

Finally Graves budged, offering the droid the slight bow of his head. "The sentiment is appreciated." A pause. "But no thanks."

With that, the Sith resumed his rigid posture, continuing to stare blankly at the opposite wall.

"Very well, master. Then I shall perform routine monitoring and maintenance within the cockpit."

The droid disappeared down the corridor that connected the central chamber to front of the ship, clanks ringing out with each step as metal met with metal. The Sith was left alone with his thoughts, few as he had. Once more, there was little change but for the passage of time. After minutes of silence, of which Graves was ignorant of how many there actually were, ALD's voice rang out once more. This time over the ship's speakers.

"Master, someone is approaching the ship."

Graves looked up. "Asher? Fay? One of Rederick's?"

"I'm afraid I do not recognize them, master. But it appears to be male Pureblood."

"Is he alone?"

"It would appear so, master," said the droid. "Would you like me to raise the entrance ramp?"

"No... it's fine, ALD. Let him aboard."

"Very well, master."

The Executor slowly rose from his seat, setting his gaze upon the corridor that led to the ship's aft. Already he could hear the distant steps of heavy boots upon solid flooring. Steps that grew louder and louder, until finally their source revealed itself. Standing within doorframe from the rear corridor, the red-skinned warrior Graves had met the day prior. Lord Demik.

"Graves," he spoke up, a warmth gracing his otherwise coarse voice. "I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. Just you and I, no fellows or apprentices."

The scarred Sith continued to stare at the Pureblood, an almost vacant expression upon his face. Silence hung heavy aboard the _Fury_, before Graves extended an arm toward one of the room's couches. "Of course. Take a seat."

"Appreciated." With that, Demik lowered himself upon the designated couch. Not a moment later, Graves sat on the neighboring piece, angled in such a way that the two Sith could face one another without excessive contortion. A blessing, considering the pair's equally armored hides. "So, Graves... is that a given name, or...?"

"Taken name," the other quickly replied.

A quick chortle from the Pureblood. "But of course. So, you're with Production and Logistics now? Seems an odd transition."

"Couldn't do much after Drath died," said Graves. "Got offered a job. Took it."

"New master?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Hmm." Demik gently stroked one of the tendrils that hung from his chin. "How familiar are you with the current situation on Balmorra?"

Graves continued to stare at the Pureblood. "I thought you wanted to discuss the past?"

"Oh, I do." Demik cracked a toothy grin. "But there are certain matters that you might find… enlightening."

The Executor remained silent.

"Did you know that there are Jedi on this planet?" the Pureblood continued. "_Besides_ the Consular currently being held in this base."

"I was under the impression both the Republic and the Order withdrew their forces from Balmorra," said Graves, maintaining his emotionless tone.

"Indeed they did. But of course, there will always be those who... follow their own path. Out there, hidden amongst the countless valleys and crags, there are those who would fight, regardless what their government might say. Rebels. Jedi." A pause. "Sith."

"Is this what you really wished to speak about?"

Another chortle from the Pureblood. "I suppose when it comes down to it, what I really wanted to talk about was you, Graves. I know the stories. About Coruscant."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about that," Graves plainly stated.

"No need for false modesty," Demik said, smirk growing ever wider. "The apprentice of Lord Drath, found standing beside his fallen master, stained with the blood of more than a dozen Jedi. You're a warrior, Graves. Like me. Like the rest of the Sith here. You didn't join Logistics because you lost your master. You joined because you lost your war. The Empire may have won... but people like us? We weren't made for peace. We were made to fight. And here, we finally have that opportunity."

"The Jedi..."

Demik nodded. "That's right. The Jedi. They're no different. Those on Balmorra? They can't stand the peace. They seek conflict. It's in their nature. They need Sith to fight, to validate their existence. And us? We're sated by passions. By conflict. The Emperor bred us to fight, and then had the audacity to command us to stop? Our superiors seek to erase our identity. Our purpose. To render us nothing."

Graves finally broke his gaze away from the Pureblood, head slightly dipping.

"Yes. That's it. You understand, don't you?" Demik continued. "A warrior like you shouldn't be working with Logistics. You already have your purpose."

"My purpose…" Graves muttered.

"We don't need the Empire or the Order to have our war. I can give you a taste of that old passion. Of that freedom. I can give you… a Jedi."

Graves lifted his gaze, settling once more on that of the Pureblood. "And how might you do that?"

"I am able to arrange fights, beneath the Imperials' notice," Demik revealed. "I find Sith willing to fight, and give their position to the resistance fighters. They, in turn, hand that position over to the Jedi hiding on Balmorra. We merely set the stage and the duel proceeds. If the Sith wins, they dispose of the body and keep the fight a secret. If the Jedi wins, they get the satisfaction of thinking they've purged the galaxy of one more affliction. And because they cannot compromise their presence, they're just as keen on keeping the secret as we are."

"They think they're doing the right thing, and we get to fight Jedi despite the war's end," Graves suggested.

"Exactly!" Demik declared, a fire in his voice as he leaned forward. A giddiness was present in every facet of the Pureblood's visage. "It's absolutely perfect! So, how soon do you wish to fight?"

Graves continued to offer the Sith Lord the usual blank stare, but after a few seconds of silence, the Human lifted himself from his seat. And without a word, he took his first steps toward the aft corridor as the Pureblood's once-giddy expression turn to one of bewilderment.

"Where are you going?"

"To see Commander Rederick," said Graves, ever the stoic. "He should find these matters rather... enlightening."

"What?" Demik shouted as he shot up from his seat. Immediately, he moved forward, placing a heavy hand upon the other Sith's shoulder. "There's no way someone like you would pass up this opportunity."

"I guess you don't know me as well as you think you do," Graves replied, not even bothering to turn and face the Pureblood.

"You would dare ruin this for us?" Demik said through gritted teeth, half a growl, half a whimper. "We _need_ this!"

"There's a difference between need and want. The war's over. Deal with it."

Demik tightened his grip on the Human's shoulder, fingers digging into the other Sith's armorweave. "It's far from over... if we can't have our little war, so be it. We'll just make a bigger one. What do you think happens when they find a dead Sith in the base, hmm? They go after the Consular. And when she's dead, the Jedi come out of hiding. Rebels. Imperials. Sith. Jedi. We'll have our war, not from the shadows, but on a global scale!"

The Sith Lord finally retrieved his hand from Graves' shoulder. But instead of simply letting it return to his side, Demik instead used it to draw his saber. Pulling a silver hilt from his belt, the Pureblood raised his weapon high as it extended its crimson blade. For a split second, the chamber was dominated by the persistent hum of the lightsaber. As well as a sharp, almost inaudible whistle.

His senses finally catching up to him, Graves spun on his heels to face his new opponent. The Human moved his hand toward his own saber, but was much too slow. But as he locked eyes with the Pureblood, the Executor saw that drawing his blade was unnecessary.

Demik stood frozen mid-step, mouth agape as if to release a primal shout, arm raised as if to bring down a cascading swing. And yet, he was not completely without motion. His entire body slightly shivered. Graves took a careful step back, looking up and down the stilled Pureblood. Only upon a second glance did he notice the line that now graced the Sith Lord's neck. A slightly darker shade of red, it took a second for blood to begin seeping from the razor-thin cut. And not a moment later, Demik's head separated from his body.

The Sith Lord fell to the floor in two parts, but not before the body could splash the Human with a spurt of the Pureblood's fluids. The previous hum of Demik's lightsaber ceased as the weapon deactivated, and Graves was left alone with the silence. Standing over the headless Sith Lord, the Executor could only offer a blank stare, his face stained red. Then, a sigh.

"Not again..."


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Aboard the _Fury_, a gathering was taking place. Three bodies overlooked the headless one that lay at their feet, but absent was the one actually responsible for the felled Sith Lord. Instead, Graves sat off to the side, red-stained face buried in his hands. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Asher, Fay, and Rederick could only offer terse stares as they bounced their gaze between the bisected pieces of Demik.

"I daresay this is what one might call a predicament," said Rederick, unwavering in his tone or delivery. Wearing a face of stone, the Imperial maintained his ordered presence, even as he locked eyes with the scowling Pureblood looking up at him.

"You're telling me," Asher casually added, though a touch more perturbed than the Commander. "He died right over a grate, which means he's been leaking into who knows where for who knows how long..." Hands on his hips, the burned man nudged Demik's torso with his foot, slightly lifting its shoulder before setting it back down.

A sigh slipped out of Fay as she rubbed her brow. "There are more important things to worry about than the ship right now."

"Indeed. This can only shake up an already unstable situation," Rederick declared.

Asher shot a sharpened glance toward his fellow seated on the nearby couch. "It's a shame one of us doesn't know the meaning of 'don't instigate'."

"I didn't mean to do it," Graves muttered as he lifted his face from his palms. "And it was self-defense."

Rederick scratched his chin, eyes still affixed to the floor. "Hard to corroborate that when the only other witness is currently missing a head."

"If I may..." A new voice. A new figure. Everyone turned toward the source, only to see the Astromechanical Logistics Droid step into the central chamber. Ever the polite attendant, the machine offered a dip of its head as all eyes fell upon it. "I had offered my services as a personal recorder for Master Graves, services which he chose to decline. However, I still believe it my duty to record the happenings within the _Fury_, especially when a guest is aboard."

"Can you verify the events that transpired here?" asked Rederick.

"I can provide an audio log detailing the event in its entirely," said the droid, almost giddy in its speech.

Immediately, everyone began to move toward the droid, rising from seats and stepping away from lifeless Sith Lords. With curiosity, they surrounded the metallic being, none willing to speak. ALD maintained its poise, almost staring off into the distance as its speakers fired up.

"Graves... I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. Just you and I, no fellows or apprentices."

The voice of Demik. The voice of the fallen. The group continued to listen with bated breath, even the man who made up half of the recorded dialogue. They listened through the pleasantries, the reminiscing, and finally, the revelations. Talk of Jedi and Sith. Of wants and desires. Of machinations and games. Of refusal. Of confrontation.

"It's far from over... if we can't have our little war, so be it. We'll just make a bigger one. What do you think happens when they find a dead Sith in the base, hmm? They go after the Consular. And when she's dead, the Jedi come out of hiding. Rebels. Imperials. Sith. Jedi. We'll have our war, not from the shadows, but on a global scale!"

Then, the sounds of a lightsaber igniting, proceeded by a series of thuds. Playback ended.

"Well, he was right about the dead Sith," Asher spoke up. "Though I doubt he was referring to himself."

"But the end result is the same," said Fay. "Which means the rest might come to pass as well."

The Executors turned toward the Commander, only to see his usually unshakable visage begin to warp. His lips trembled, eventually settling on the slightest of scowls. Slowly, the Imperial reached to his belt, retrieving a small, handheld cylinder and holding it to his mouth.

"Sergeant..." Rederick spoke into the device, almost at a whisper.

"Yes, Commander?" came an immediate response.

"If you would, please triple the security in front of the command center. No one is permitted to enter unless personally accompanied by me, understand?"

"Understood, sir!"

Rederick drew and released a deep breath as he returned the communicator to his belt. The man fell silent, closing his remaining organic eye. "It would seem that your actions were more than justified, Mr. Graves."

The scarred, bloodstained Sith offered no immediate response, simply standing with his head slightly dipped.

"So how do we proceed?" asked Fay.

"If Lord Demik was the one running this... operation... it stands to reason his apprentices were in on it as well," Rederick suggested.

"It stands to reason that every Sith occupying this base, or even this planet, was in on it," Asher mumbled.

Rederick worked to regain his composure, wiping any trace of a frown from his face as he interlocked his hands behind his back. "That is a road we shall cross in time. But for now, we must focus our efforts on what we know. Demik's apprentices are likely curious of their master's whereabouts. They should be detained as soon as possible to avoid further troubles."

"Detain them how?" asked Asher.

"The 'how' is easy," Fay plainly stated. "It's the 'where' that's uncertain."

"Bring them to the command center. The rooms there are the closest thing we have to holding cells," said Rederick.

Fay arched her brow. "Do we really want to move them closer to the Jedi?"

"Better than interrogating them out in the open," Rederick replied.

The woman offered a firm nod. "Got it. Prep the room. I'll handle the apprentices."

"I'll run interference in case one tries to slip away," Asher added.

"What should I do?" asked Graves.

Asher cocked his head to the side. "Well, for one thing you could wash up. It's disconcerting how often we've met and your face was stained with blood."

Graves' head dipped. "It was my own, last time."

"I honestly don't know which is worse," Asher replied. "Clean yourself up. And try not to cut off any more heads in the meantime."

With that, the burned Sith made his way toward the ship's entrance. Fay followed, but not before offering her fellow a respectful nod.

"About the killing," Graves muttered. "I..."

"Another time, Graves," said Fay, lacking the bite of the burned Sith's words, but also lacking a sense of comfort. "Other matters now require our attention."

As the two Executors disappeared down the rear corridor, Graves was left alone with the Commander, as well as the droid who stood awkwardly in the corner of the room. The remaining Sith's head dipped further, until his eyes seemed glued to the floor. Lifting both his gaze and spirits, however, was Rederick placing a prosthetic hand upon the Executor's shoulder.

"You did a good thing," he said, a softness shining through the Imperial's otherwise stoic demeanor. "The man was a traitor to the Empire, and deserved punishment."

"All I did was defend myself," Graves replied. "And even then, it doesn't feel like _I_ actually did anything."

"Then think of all you did beyond the one act. You refused his offer. You sought to expose him. The mark of a patriot does not lie solely in great acts. Every decision we make, it can serve our selves, or it can serve something greater. We are individuals united in our purpose."

"Our purpose..." Graves muttered.

"That is what it means to be an Imperial," Rederick continued. "And though I will not presume what it means to be a Sith, I will say that could not be far off. Or rather, it should not be."

Graves lifted his gaze, and was greeted with the Commander's eyes staring into his own, both organic and cybernetic. There was a warmth in Rederick's visage, one strong enough to overpower the cold machinery that dominated half of his face. And yet, its strength was born solely from the slight curl upon his lips. One that Graves mirrored.

"But your friend is right, you should probably wash off the blood..."

* * *

Back inside the base, the two underlings of Lord Demik squirmed in their tent, tapping their feet and constantly looking side to side. Beads of sweat formed on their brows as they incessantly awaited the return of their master, who had now been gone for hours. All they could feel was a growing panic and unease, until finally a large silhouette appeared on the other side of their tent's flaps.

"Master!" the pair joyously cried out in unison.

But as the figure parted the flaps, the panic and unease returned stronger than ever. Without a word, Fay stepped inside, towering over the seated apprentices. But seated they would remain no longer.

"Where is our master?" barked the lesser woman.

Fay focused on the tattooed Sith and took a step forward. She offered no explanation. No quip. Merely the delivery of her clenched first to the apprentice's torso. In an instant, the air was evacuated from the Sith's lungs and she fell to the cold, hard ground. Trembling legs carried the other apprentice as he rushed past the Executor and fled the tent. He managed only a single step before tripping over himself, face planting into the Balmorran dirt. As he lifted his gaze, he was greeted with the sight of the wrapped Sith standing in front of him, arms firmly crossed.

"Going somewhere?" asked Asher.

The apprentice's lips parted, but no words came forth. And before he could make further attempts to speak, he felt something tugging on his leg. Looking back, the Sith saw his foot raised into the air, seemingly of its own accord. Then, the invisible force began dragging him back into the tent, overpowering any attempts he made to claw at the dirt.

* * *

Crowded was the corridor deep inside the command center. Sith, Jedi, and Imperials alike gathered outside one of the many identical doors than lined the hallway. Asher stood beside Graves, no longer stained with the blood of Lord Demik. Rederick was flanked by a pair of soldiers, armed and armored. And amongst them was Master Kesara, absent her usual cup of tea.

Each and every one of them perked up as a series of knocks rang out from the other side of the room's door. One of the soldiers tapped away at the control panel, and soon the solid barrier lifted into its recess.

"They're ready for you," said Fay as she stepped out of the chamber.

Rederick offered a nod. "Thank you, Executor. I can take things from here."

"Commander, if I may," Kesara spoke up. "I believe myself capable of acquiring the information we need through less... forceful means."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Consular, but I must decline your offer," Rederick declared. Slowly, the Commander passed his gaze between the gathered individuals. "Under no circumstances am I to be interrupted, understand? No matter what you hear, after this door closes, it does not open until I give the proper signal."

The soldiers offered their acknowledgements, with the others supplying various nods of their own. With that, the Commander stepped into the chamber and the door shut behind him.

The room was as barren as the one Kesara had occupied, but with the added benefit of a second chair to accommodate the two apprentices on the other side of the table. And thus they sat, side by side, opposite their interrogator, hands shackled behind the backs of their chairs. Heads dipped, they slumped not from the swift beating they had previously received, but to avoid eye contact with the Imperial. But as they surreptitiously lifted their gazes, they were greeted with the sight of an impeccably dressed officer, hands kept behind his back, blaster pistol strapped to his thigh.

"Aris and Noran, apprentices to Lord Demik," Rederick began. The Commander was the embodiment of calm. Unwavering in his stance. In his voice. "What can you tell me about the Jedi on Balmorra? More specifically, your connection with them?"

The woman lifted her head, casting a hateful stare as her tattoo was illuminated under the hanging light. "We don't have to answer your questions."

"We don't _have_ to do anything, Aris," Rederick replied. "We don't _have_ to arrange fights beneath our government's notice. We don't _have_ to cause good men and women to lose their lives, just because they happened to get caught in the crossfire. We don't _have_ to commit treason. And yet, you and your master did all those things. Why?"

"The actions of Sith are beyond your concern, Imperial," Aris muttered, practically spitting with each word.

A loud clang rang out as metal met metal, as Rederick slammed his prosthetic fist on the table. "No they are not! Your master defied the Emperor's will! Sacrificed the lives of soldiers! Made contact with the enemy!" The Commander's shouts reverberated throughout the compact chamber, until all fell silent. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, revealing a dent in the spot it made contact. Gathering himself, Rederick drew and released a deep breath. "And I want to know why and how."

"The 'why'?" Aris said with a smirk. "Because we wanted to, you blithering idiot. You think we care if a few Imperials died? It's expected of you. Your lives are worthless next to the ambitions of Sith. That's how it's always been, and how it always will be."

Rederick's fists clenched, an audible creaking ringing out as metal rubbed against metal. But the man did not break. Turning away from the woman, the Commander set his sights on her fellow apprentice. Noran kept his head dipped, shying away as he continued to maintain his silence.

Another deep breath from Rederick. "Very well. Let's skip the 'why' and go straight to the 'how'. All communications equipment and transmissions are monitored. How did your master relay his messages? How did he arrange these fights?"

The woman offered nothing but her sharpened gaze and her growing smirk. All was silent, but for an ethereal hum than began to fill the chamber.

"Tell me," Rederick demanded. "How did you master communicate with the rebels? With the Jedi?"

No response. Instead, the woman continued to stare at the Imperial, never breaking eye contact. Finally, as the hum seemed to grow in intensity, she spoke. "You don't want to know."

Rederick arched his brow. "Pardon?"

"You don't want to know," Aris repeated, concentrating. "You want to forget all about this and let us go."

The words were almost soothing as they graced the Imperial's ears, laced with the very essence of the Force. Unfortunately for the Sith, her mental suggestion proved incapable of boring into the target's head. The same could not be said for the response. In a single motion, Rederick pulled the blaster pistol from his holster and squeezed the trigger. First, a sharp ping. Then, a green bolt.

The woman rocked in her chair as the round passed through her skull, eventually slumping forward. Her restraints kept her from reaching the flat of the table. Her hair obscured the tattoo that now featured a hole in its center.

Finally the other apprentice stirred. The man jostled and shook, releasing a litany of garbled words and curses as he bounced his gaze between his fallen fellow and anywhere else he could possibly look. Meanwhile, Rederick maintained his poise, calmly returning the blaster to its holster.

A muffled voice rang out on the other side of the door. "Commander? Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine, do not interrupt us," Rederick shouted through the door. Slowly, he panned his gaze back toward the still-breathing apprentice. "Perhaps you'll prove more cooperative, Noran."

"I don't... you... you can't do this!" he replied, bouncing between mumbles and shouts.

"I can't? And why not?" Rederick calmly asked. "Because I'm not Sith? Because I'm just some lowly Imperial? Well guess what, you're not Sith either. You and your master were stripped of such designations when you decided to commit high treason. Now... you _will_ tell me the means in which you've been communicating with the rebel forces."

Noran was reduced to a blubbering slump, tears streaming down his cheeks. Through sniffles and trembling lips, he finally managed to speak. "Our master had a... private communicator. Unmonitored."

"Where is it?"

"Hidden... in our tent. I don't know where, he never let us see it. But I swear to you, it's there! That's all we... that's all I know." The apprentice lifted gaze to find a silent Rederick staring back at him. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"Our law dictates that the sole punishment for treason be execution," Rederick plainly stated.

Noran lowered his gaze, not ceasing his discharge of tears. "This isn't fair..."

"Fair? After what you and your master have done, you would speak of fairness?"

"You don't understand... what it's like," Noran muttered. "The Academy... we were raised to fight. That was our purpose. To fight. To hate. To kill. You people spent months, years, preparing us for the war, and then just expected us to give it all up? You know what we are without war? Nothing! You took away our identity... our purpose... our entire reason for being. And then you have the gall to blame us for lashing out? That was our nourishment, and now you're literally starving us. You'll never understand what it's like to be a Sith!"

"And yet I know more of war than you ever will," Rederick replied, a softness gracing his otherwise terse voice. The Commander rolled back his left sleeve, then his right, revealing more and more of the metallic limbs that rest beneath. Black, almost skeletal prosthetics emerged, their junction with flesh still not revealed even as he pushed his sleeves past his elbows. "I owe the war... for a great many things. It earned me my position. It earned me my status. It earned me my new body. In all, I can safely say I've gained more than lost from war. But I do not like war. I... tolerate... war. I tolerate the battles, the conflicts, the skirmishes. I tolerate being forced to march across fields of grass, rock, and snow. I tolerate the Sith Lords sending men and women to their doom. I tolerate countless pings of blaster bolts passing by, drowned out only by the roar of starfighters as they fly overhead. I tolerate seeing my fellows burn alive because they cannot escape the wreckage of an armored transport. I tolerate seeing my own limbs litter the ground as I'm carried away from an explosion. I tolerate being brought back, again and again. I tolerate being forced to fight, again and again. But you would seek such a thing. You would manufacture such a thing. And to what end? To fight for the sake of fighting. Mine is the blood of a soldier. Should the Emperor call for war, I will fight without a moment's hesitation. But I do not like war. Whatever glory there is to be had... whatever thrill or sated desire... that is not why we fight. We fight today, that we might not have to tomorrow. We fight to instill some sense of order upon a chaotic galaxy. Not for personal gain. And not at the expense of our fellows."

Rederick punctuated his speech with the slow drawing of his blaster from its holster. Noran immediately winced, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He waited, second after second, until he heard a light thud. The apprenticed cracked open an eye, only to find the pistol resting on the table in front of him, and the Commander nowhere to be seen. Just as he began to arch a brow, Noran felt something tugging on his arms, followed by a series of clicks. In a matter of moments, he had regained control of his hands, no longer shackled. The apprentice puzzled as Rederick walked back into view, circling around the table.

Hands kept behind his back, the Commander drew and released one last deep breath. "You've a series of choices. Unfortunately, none of them involve you keeping your life. The first, and most obvious one, would be to try and shoot me and escape. Of course, if I did not manage to end you, those waiting outside definitely would. The second, would be to follow in Aris' footsteps and have me simply carry out your punishment. And then there's the third option."

"What's the third option?"

Rederick paused. "You, of course, should be familiar with the ramifications of treason, beyond your own execution. Your name, and anything associated with it, will forever be tarnished. Your relatives... past, present, and future with bear the brand of a traitor. But, I believe you are not beyond all measures of redemption. Take the third option, and I will ensure your crimes remain yours and yours alone. That is my offer."

Noran stared at the Commander with heavy eyes, cheeks still wet with tears. With a sniffle, he slowly lowered his gaze, eventually resting it on the pistol in front of him. And without a word, he reached out.

* * *

Outside the cramped chamber, in the equally cramped corridor, the others patiently waited for Rederick to finish his interrogation.

"How do you think things are going in there?" asked Asher.

"Walls are too thick to hear much of anything," said Fay, content to lean against the wall adjacent to the shut door. "But he sounded like he had things under control."

Cutting off the Executor was a sharp ping ringing out from inside the holding cell. The second one to grace their ears. The motley group stirred from their positions, but heeded the Commander's previous words. Everyone remained silent and motionless, until they heard a series of knocks on the other side of the door. The pair of soldiers stationed outside shared a brief glance and a nod with each other, and one quickly tapped away at the nearby control panel.

The door shot up into its recess and out came Rederick, shoving a blaster into his thigh holster as he emerged.

"We need to investigate the Sith's tent," he revealed, wasting no time making his way toward the command center's entrance. The rest followed, but not before sneaking a quick glance into the chamber, only to be greeted with the sight of two motionless Sith.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

Rederick led the way through the command center's innards, the packed group of disparate figures trailing his impassioned gait. Soldiers, Sith, and Jedi alike navigated the cramped corridor in silence, only the echoes of more than a dozen boots gracing their senses. But the journey would prove short-lived as the Commander took pause in front of the Consular's impromptu home.

With a forced calm, he beckoned the Jedi to the front of the group before waving her into the empty room. "My apologies, Master Kesara, but we cannot risk having you out in the open. Stay here, if you would, whilst the Executors and I tend to the matters at hand."

There was an expediency in the Imperial's every syllable, but never did the man completely shed his knack for decorum. His head held at a slight dip as he spoke, Rederick maintained a fine balance of respect and utmost haste. The Consular, meanwhile, offered no objections. Stepping past Sith and riflemen, Kesara returned to her room with little more than a polite nod.

With an almost imperceptible wag of the Commander's finger, the pair of soldiers gracing the hallway snapped to attention. Immediately, they moved forward, flanking the entrance to the Jedi's chamber and sealing her in with the quick press of a button. There they remained, stances rigid, rifles in hand, helmed gazes perpetually forward.

Spinning on his heels, Rederick continued his trek through the base without a word, simply expecting the Executors to follow. His expectations were promptly met. The group had been reduced to a mere quartet, but quite the quartet it remained.

"So, where do we go from here?" asked Fay.

"Demik had a communicator," Rederick began, not ceasing his forward pace. "Hidden from us… as well as his apprentices, to a degree. We will locate it and see if it can tell us anything."

"The other Sith won't take kindly to us ransacking one of their tents," Fay replied.

"That they won't," said Rederick. The Commander retrieved the cylindrical communicator from his belt and brought it to his mouth. "This is a priority alert to all outpost defenders. Pull all but two sentries from the walls. Place a single IDD at the front entrance. I need everyone and everything else in the courtyard. Those guarding the command center are to remain at their posts. Rederick, out."

"Don't think they'll take kindly to a firing squad, either," Asher muttered.

"I've no intention to kill, only to maintain some semblance of order. We cannot allow anyone to interfere with our search. Time is of the essence."

"How so?" asked Graves.

"We don't know the nature of Demik's arrangement," Fay stated. "There's a chance him going silent could prompt those he communicated with to disappear."

"Precisely," said Rederick. The Commander only momentarily paused in order to open a door, spilling the group into the central hub of the command center. The terminals lining the floor and walls were dark and unpowered, the communications blackout still in effect.

"If only someone had opted for something other than a beheading," Asher muttered. "We might have been able to force Demik to talk with his mysterious contacts."

Graves' head dipped. "I didn't really have a choice..."

"Really? Couldn't have just stabbed him in the gut or something?" Asher asked. "Maybe lop off an arm? I mean, I know from experience that's not a sure-fire way to stop someone but-"

"Graves didn't use his lightsaber," Fay interrupted. "He used the Force."

The scarred man met his gaze with that of his taller fellow, his typically stoic countenance almost shifting to one of surprise. "You could tell?"

"Even if I didn't recognize the technique, the lack of cauterization was a rather big giveaway," Fay plainly stated before turning toward her other teammate. "You didn't think that odd, Asher?"

"I wasn't exactly _staring_ at the wound itself," he mumbled, arms crossed. "And people _have_ been known to bleed from saber cuts around major points of articulation... but this is the first I've heard about people getting sliced up with the Force."

The Executors came to an abrupt stop, whilst an unaware Rederick continued toward the command center's front entrance.

"The most basic applications of the Force are through telekinetics," Fay explained, figuratively and literally talking down to the burned Sith. "Pushes manifest in waves. Compress those waves and, with enough speed and power, you've got yourself a blade." The woman raised her hand and offered a quick flick of her index finger. "Remember?"

"Right... no offense, but Graves doesn't exactly seem the type capable of that," said Asher, not even looking at the subject of his derisions. "He's somewhat lacking in skill and finesse and... overall Force prowess."

"He's actually right," Graves replied, usual emotionless candor. The burned Sith snapped toward his stoic fellow, almost offended that he would agree with him. "Honestly, I can barely even call upon the Force."

"Then explain the headless Sith currently aboard my... _our_ ship."

"While I can't actively use it, I've got some sort of subconscious defense system," Graves explained. "Usually it only activates after I've been beat to hell or black out. Guess it was different this time."

Before Graves could even finish his words, Asher scuttled away, practically throwing himself against one of the nearby terminals. Eyes wide, chest rising and falling with each frantic breath, the burned Sith continued to press his back against the deactivated machinery.

"What's your problem now, Asher?" asked Fay, utterly calm.

"My problem? We've got someone who can _accidentally_ behead people!"

"Only if they happen to attack him," Fay replied. "Honestly, I see it as positive."

"Of course you would," said Asher with a harsh whisper. "First Nami, and now this. I get you've a thing for damaged goods, but whereas the girl just throws a punch or two, Graves cuts people's heads off!"

"Only sometimes," Grave plainly stated. "This is the second time it's ever happened... I think."

"You _think_?"

"Well, like I said, sometimes I black out and... it's not like I've ever cut off anything of yours."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Asher shot back.

"That was the intention, yes," said Graves.

"Executors," Rederick called out. The trio looked to see the Commander standing in the open entrance, a dark silhouette as the Balmorran sunlight shined beyond him. "I'm afraid I must once again stress that time is of the essence."

"You heard him, let's go," said Fay, already taking her first step toward the exit.

"Whoa, wait, no," Asher stammered. "We are not dropping this!"

Fay paused her advance, looked over her shoulder, and cast a sharpened glare toward the burned Sith. "Yes. We are. The mission comes first, so suck it up."

"Just because you don't see the problem-"

"Oh, I see the problem," Fay interrupted, firm in her tone. "I just happen to also see the solution. Don't instigate."

With that, the tall woman resumed her trek to the front of the command center. Finally, Asher pushed himself off the unpowered terminal, straightening out his robes as he avoided eye contact with the scarred man nearby.

"If it makes you feel any better-" Graves began before finding a hand raised toward his face.

"Graves... you are literally incapable of saying or doing anything that would make me feel better."

Dropping his hand, Asher finally began to walk in the direction of Fay and Rederick. In a matter of moments, Graves was left standing alone in the dim lighting of the command center.

"This is why I said I don't work in groups..."

* * *

The courtyard of Imperial Outpost XT-25 basked in the orange glow of the setting sun. Though the long day slowly approached its end, there was a renewed bustle within the walls of the military base. Beyond the perimeter, all was still, all was silent. The stomping of boots and struts atop the dry grasslands was replaced by little more than the passing breeze.

Atop the duracrete wall, a single soldier stood on each side of the partition that was the outpost's entrance. The black-clad figures cast their helmed gaze out toward the empty landscape, never sneaking even the slightest glance toward the commotion behind their backs. On the ground, practically blocking the base's entrance, an Imperial Defense Droid performed its duty with as much diligence as its organic counterparts. Its three struts firmly planted in the dirt, the walking turret would repeatedly pivot upon its waist, ready to vaporize any external threat with the cannons that took the place of its hands. Meanwhile, the rest of the base's defenders were focused on threats more internal.

A gathering was underway. Imperials and Sith. Subordinates and superiors. Organics and machines. A group of blends and stark divides. Of beings dark and gray. The tents were empty, their occupants having been spilled into the courtyard. Scores of Imperial soldiers and battledroids, more than a dozen Sith, two sides staring one another down, separated by a threshold neither would cross.

On the side of duty, faceless beings blind to the Force. Not a spot of flesh showed amongst the base defenders, full suits of armor covering each Human's hide. Shoulder to shoulder, the soldiers and their mechanical accompaniment were equally calm, equally rigid. Rifles in hand, they stood at the ready, but never did they fully raise their weapons.

On the side of passion, individuals seeped in the dark side. Some Human, others Pureblood. Some robed, others armored. None wholly the same, yet none wholly unique. Pallid skin, eyes of crimson and gold, the warriors had driven themselves deep down their chosen path and reflected that fact in every fiber of their being.

And between them all, the motley quartet of Rederick and the Executors. Though with their backs toward the Commander's forces, it was clear with side they truly fell upon.

"Sith," Rederick began, speaking just loud enough to ensure his words met every ear beneath every cowl. The man remained adamant as he was bombarded by harsh glares, his hands neatly held behind his back. "A great many questions must be running through your heads. Why we have gathered. Why the one known as Demik no longer stands amongst you. The truth is that he and his apprentices were found guilty of treasonous acts, and they received punishments befitting their crime."

There was a series of hushed mummers amongst the Sith as they turned their glares toward each other rather than toward the Commander.

"However," Rederick continued, "the nature of their transgression gives us reason to believe that they were not the only Sith involved with this treasonous behavior. Given your contact with the accused, as well as your positions prior to relocation, it stand to reason that many of you are guilty of the very same crime. Fortunately for you all, we haven't sufficient proof and I have seen enough death for today. There will be no executions, no massacres, so long as no one impedes our search of Demik's quarters and belongings. Any attempt to do so will be seen not only as an act of obstruction, but as one's complicity in the aforementioned crimes. Now, if you would, please stand aside and let us proceed with our efforts."

Rederick took his first steps forward toward the line of Sith, only to find his progress impeded as the man before him refused to budge. The warrior was a thing of broken and warped flesh much as the cyborg was. But whereas Rederick's visage spoke of wounds sustained, the Sith's spoke of an internal corruption that managed to claw its way to the surface. Organics twisted by the dark side, rather than mended by cybernetics.

"I'll ask again," said Rederick, firm and direct, locking eyes with the scowling warrior. "If you would, please stand aside."

"An Imperial thinking he can preside over Sith..." the warrior growled. "You've no idea the consequences you'll face..."

"I may have earned myself a few demerits... but I'd say it's worth it to put a few traitors in their place."

"Just wait until my master hears of your actions... demerits will be the least of your worries."

Rederick remained stone-faced as the stared down the hooded warrior. "Go ahead and inform them. Of course, with there being a blackout on communications, you'll have to wait a while before you can deliver the news. Unless you also happen to have some contraband in your tent worth examining?"

Without a word, the haughty Sith stepped aside, granting the Commander a clear path toward Demik's quarters. Rederick moved forward, and the Executors followed shortly thereafter. The Imperial pushed past the tent's flap without a second thought, followed by Fay. But as the scarred and burned Sith were about to enter, Graves found a hand placed on his chest. A hand that belonged to Asher.

"Stay out here," he said.

"But I can help with the search," Graves replied.

"Maybe. But I'd prefer not to share a cramped space with someone surrounded by an uncontrollable death-bubble."

"It's not uncontrollable," said Graves before looking down. "See? You're touching me right now."

Asher quickly rescinded his hand, almost unaware it had extended in the first place. "Look, someone has to stand lookout. Might as well be you. Okay?"

"If you think so... then I will."

With that, Graves turned his back on his fellow, looking out to the scores of Imperials and Sith that stood before him. His feet planted in the dirt, the scarred man did nothing but occasionally pan his gaze from left to right and back again. Asher opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply ducked into the tent.

Inside, Rederick and Fay had already begun their search. There was little resting between the walls of canvas, atop the floor of Balmorran dirt. The Imperial focused on the Sith's cots, running his mechanical hands through numerous layers of sheets. The Kineticist, meanwhile, did more heavy lifting, raising furniture with the Force before setting it back on the ground with nary a thud. From chairs to shelves, Fay searched beneath and behind the solid objects, moving with an effortless grace.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Asher asked, still standing near the cramped quarters' entrance.

"A personal communicator," said Rederick as he tossed aside a sheet. "Small enough to have been smuggled in and kept a secret. Likely possesses a cylindrical or disk shape."

The burned Sith remained motionless, merely scanning his surroundings. Eventually, he settled on the dirt flooring, running his gaze along the tent's edges until something caught his eye. The slight glint of light reflecting off a metallic surface. Asher held out his open hand, subtly clawing at the air as he focused his mind. Not a moment later, a pair of gray cylinders began rolling across the floor toward their manipulator. Two lightsabers once belonging to Demik's apprentices.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Asher sent the hilts flying toward him, only to catch one in each hand. He turned them over, examining every curve and ridge. Searching each one's length, he eventually rested his thumbs over the lightsabers' activators.

The tent was filled with the twin hums of the two weapons activating, and soon the cramped space was basked in a red glow. Not a moment later, the other occupants snapped toward the disturbance.

"Uh, Asher?" Fay spoke up.

"Had to check," he replied, promptly deactivating the weapons. "There's actually a lot of space inside the casings if you remove the crystal and power cell. Seeing if it turns on is easier than disassembling it."

"Good call," said Fay. "The best hiding place would be somewhere no Imperial would think, or dare, to search."

"Indeed," Rederick spoke up. "Though considering Demik's apprentices didn't know where he kept his communicator, it's safe to say it wasn't hidden amongst their belongings. Though Demik's lightsaber..."

"No, we heard it activate on the droid's recording," Asher replied. "Still, Sith are associated with more than just lightsabers. Let's look for something beyond a soldier's purview."

"Good thinking, Asher," a calm voice sounded off on the other side of the tent flaps.

"Thanks, Graves." The burned Sith's reply was unconsciously warm, a fact that made his eye twitch as his brain caught up with his tongue. Asher quickly snapped toward the partition, biting his lip. "Don't get distracted! You're on lookout!"

No more words came from outside. With a huff, Asher set the pair of hilts down on one of the nearby folding chairs. Meanwhile, Rederick had cleared the cots, turning his attention to one of the trunks lying beneath them. He dragged them out, one by one, until three large suitcases graced the center of the tent.

The noise and motion of the metal crates scraping against the dirt caught the attention of the Executors. Without a word, they approached the suitcases, all three investigators having a trunk unto themselves. Asher and Fay quickly went to work, undoing the latches of their respective luggage and parting their lids. Both were greeted with little more than a loose bundle of black clothes of varying shapes and sizes. Rederick, meanwhile, simply looked at his still-closed suitcase.

"Mine has a combination lock," he muttered.

"Need help?" asked Fay.

"Appreciated... but no need." With that, the Commander gripped the two halves of the lock, tightening his mechanical grip. The tent filled with the sounds of warping metal until, with a quick jerk, Rederick shattered the lock and forced open the lid of his trunk.

The trio continued their search, rifling through the belongings of Demik and his apprentices, not entirely sure to whom each trunk belonged. After a few seconds of rifling through sets of robes, Asher was the first to return with something other than backup attire. It was a metallic disc that fit in the palm of his hand, just thick enough to house a series of electronics beneath its rigid casing.

"Might have something," Asher muttered as he fiddled with the device. A moment later, an emitter in the center of the disc lit up and a hologram began to form above the disc. After a flicker, the blue light took the shape a family, a three-dimensional photo. Three Humans stood together, a mother and father resting their hands upon their son's shoulders, all smiling. The burned Sith stared at the image for only a second before promptly shutting it off, haphazardly tossing the device back into the trunk. "Never mind. False alarm."

The searched continued. The next to discover something peculiar was Rederick, whose mechanical nerves told him of something sharp hiding amongst his pile of clothes. When he retrieved his hand, he held within it a small pyramid. The black and red polygon was just small enough to be held in the Imperial's palm, home to intricate Sith designs etched into every facet of its glass-like surface.

"A holocron," he muttered, his one organic eye growing wide. The Executors immediately looked up from their trunks, staring at the device with similar interest.

"A repository of Sith secrets," Fay spoke up. "A device manufactured and utilized solely by those gifted with the Force. Definitely something Imperials would avoid messing with."

Rederick rubbed his chin with his free hand, eyes still locked on the crimson device. "Even without superstition holding them back, soldiers aren't to tamper with artifacts without ties to Reclamation Service or the Sphere of Ancient Knowledge."

"Making one the perfect place to conceal contraband," said Fay as she made her way over to the Commander.

Asher released a quick chuckle. "What better place to hide something than somewhere people would be too afraid to look. Sith holocrons have a reputation for corrupting the minds of the untrained."

Fay carefully took the pyramid from the Commander, holding it in her palm and bringing it close to her face.

"Of course," Asher continued, "its innards are typically occupied by a complicated crystalline-latticework forming a semi-organic computerized neural network capable of storing immense amounts of data and imprinting from its creator, so even if it possessed a compartment at its core, there wouldn't be much space to-"

Ignoring the burned Sith's exposition, Fay hovered her other hand over the holocron, sandwiching the device between her palms. With but a quick thought, she channeled the Force from her hands, and the pyramid shattered into thousand tiny pieces, revealing a metallic disk within.

"It was a fake," she plainly stated. "Hollow."

"Well then..." Asher muttered, arms crossed. "I guess that settles that."

Fay took the hidden device in her other hand, letting the shattered remains of the fake holocron fall to the dirt floor. A rounded disk, home to a clip on one side and a compact holoprojector on the other, its surfaces lined with a number of switched and dials.

"I'd say we found Demik's means of communication," she said.

The trio drew closer and closer to one another, until they stood in a circle around the device in the tall woman's hands.

"So, what now?" asked Asher.

"Now... we can begin in earnest."


End file.
